


All good things come in twenty-fours

by casasst



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Advent Calendar 2020, Bisexual Harry, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Christmas, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Family Reunions, Humor, Improbable Events, Kink, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, New-York-corrupted Harry, Not Epilogue Compliant, Power Dynamics, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, seriously it will get ridiculuos, sometimes questionable consent siutations, with things developing: very dirty talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27823363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casasst/pseuds/casasst
Summary: Home sweet home - right? Harry is not so sure when border control harasses him first thing as he enters England again after a decade in the United States.Alas, it's Christmas time! Just 24 days until Christmas, and there are a lot of places and people to visit. Little does Harry know that each of them will hold a surprise encounter with one person from the past he had not thought of to begin with - but times they are a-changing...Have yourself a merry little advent calendar of kinky, raunchy, ridiculous, funny, smutty stories <3
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 53





	1. December 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where border control is not amused, Harry should have checked what he left in is luggage, and two wizards in a waiting room make for a memorable welcome home.

Even with his eyes closed, Harry immediately knows: He is back in England. The rise and fall of voices is different, higher and lower, undeniably British. There is little excited shouting and a lot of over-exaggerated throat-clearing. Even steps sound different on the ubiquitous cobblestone with fewer high-heels clicking and a plethora of dress shoes hitting the ground. Harry smiles and opens his eyes.

His balance is a little off from the long portkey journey. He reaches for the wall next to him and hopes that there are still a few seconds left on his travel slot before the next wizard pops into cubicle seven-three-four. The London International Portkey Station seems busy for a Tuesday morning. There is a steady stream of witches and wizards walking by the glass front of the little stall that has been the designated end point of his transatlantic journey. 

“Welcome to L.I.P.S.”, a female voice blares. “We would like to remind you to leave your travel cubicle upon arrival and proceed to security and customs as soon as possible. We thank you for your cooperation and hope you enjoy your stay in London. If you need…”

Harry sighs and places the empty coffee-to-go cup in his hand on the shelf for used portkeys that is littered with garbage from around the globe: stale baguette from France, an empty beer bottle from Belgium, chopsticks, trash can lids, broken sunglasses, a single wool glove. Of course, New York needs to be represented by its caffeine addiction, Harry thinks. He could use a cup with actual content, too.

He walks through the arrival hall of LIPS with a funny feeling in his stomach that he wants to blame on the rough portkey ride. He knows that it is not the entire story. It has been a decade since he last set foot on British soil and his intestines are busy breaking down feelings of joy, guilt, and uncertainty. After the war, the decision that he should go abroad and lay low for a while was unanimous. He had not wanted to part from his friends back then. But he had been mentally and physically exhausted from too many battles, too many losses. He had barely found the energy to celebrate. Two weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts, he had not left the house once because he could not muster the energy to leave his bed and get dressed. Hermione, Neville, Luna, and the Weasleys had soon grown worried enough to piece together a plan. They convinced the Ministry of Magic to organize a stay in the United States for him. On Harry’s insistence - which may have involved an emotional outburst or two which may have left some traces in Shacklebolt’s office - it involved some preliminary Auror training at MACUSA. 

Harry had felt at home in New York City sooner than he expected. While his name did grant him some respectful looks at the MACUSA, nobody recognized him on the street as long as he wore a baseball cap and left his glasses at home. Harry settled into a new, busy routine. New York was exciting, Auror training was time-consuming, and most news from home kept reminding him of the things he so successfully suppressed in his everyday American life. Daily floo calls turned into weekly ones, long conversations into brief chats, teams of owls dragging heavy care packets into single birds delivering cards for the holidays. So when the planned end of Harry’s stay in the States arrived, he found more reasons to stay - not interrupting his training, needing time for sorting through his new belongings, for finding a new home for his newly adopted cat, for visiting his favorite restaurants one more time, for saying goodbye to friends, for shagging lovers goodbye - than he found reasons to go back.

Harry shakes his head to stop the fast-forward flashback in his head. He does not regret that he stayed in New York. He does feel guilty for not visiting England at all though. He walks to the security area with heavy steps. Behind the glass barriers that separate the security area from London proper, people are falling into each other's arms, laughing, waving colorful signs and animal balloons. He smiles wearily. It won’t be such an easy reunion with his old friends. He knows why he has not told them that he was coming - he does not want an emotional breakdown in public. And he had not known in advance how well he would be recognized in London after ten years.

So far, Harry is relieved. Nobody seems to notice the man with the Yankees cap and unruly black hair apart from a few teenage witches whose eyes grow round and shiny before they turn away with a giggle. Harry throws a half-grin at the first few he notices. He does not really believe his friends when they tell him that he is good-looking, “motherfucking gorgeous” if one believes Tracey, but he knows how to read the signs of someone being interested. He let Tracey, Yael, and Zach teach him. Thinking of the impossible trio that has become his American family draws a smile on his face. Merlin, how different their kinds of adventures had been from the kinds he dragged Ron and Hermione into. 

“Sir, would you please hold your wand out for me?”

The flat and slightly annoyed voice of a security witch interrupts Harry’s musings. Her right hand is stretched out, open palm facing him. She looks like she will eat Harry alive if he does not comply within the minute. Circe, Harry thinks, the post-war paranoia is still real. He draws his wand from the holster at his thigh. The security officer’s lower eyelid twitches. At least she recognizes the MACUSA crest, Harry thinks, and hopes that this will help instead of hinder the process.

“Name!”, she barks while she mutters diagnostic spells over Harry’s wand.

“Harry James Potter.”, Harry mumbles as quietly as he dares. 

He does not think the witch understood and she does not seem to care. She is absorbed in her spell work, her eyebrows rising higher each time she finishes another round of classification spells. Harry wonders whether she is digging into spell categories that she has no business looking into. 

“I am a senior officer at the Auror department of the MACUSA.”, he adds as matter-of-factly as he can. “You know that that involves some spellwork that you would not expect from a civilian wizard.”

That is not all Harry is worried about but the one thing he dares say out loud. If the British regulations are anything like the American ones, the security witch should not be probing anything that falls under the umbrella of “adult pastime” charms but the pink that starts to flush her cheeks betrays her nosiness. She looks at him with widened eyes. 

“Ahem. Yes, indeed. I suppose that this explains certain… irregularities.”

Harry suppresses an eyeroll. She should be used to seeing this and worse if she is checking everybody’s wands like this, he thinks. But then, maybe she only feels so inclined if the wand owner pikes her non-professional interest. 

“If you would not mind, I would like to cast a brief radiography spell on your holdall.”, she continues, then licks her lips. “And on your cloak, if you please. Standard procedure.”

Now Harry is almost amused. He looks her over briefly. She is about his age, short-legged but fit, brown-haired and dark-eyed. He would not have noticed her on the street. Sadly, he adds in his thoughts.

“Go ahead”, he answers. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

He throws in a little wink for good measure. This is taking too long for his liking and a bit of flirting might just about sway her to let him pass without further questions. Her cheeks turn from pink to crimson. She has to repeat the wand movements twice before she gets them right.

“Um”, she starts. Harry has a sense of foreboding. “I am… terribly sorry, Sir, but you seem to have some items on you that will need to be analyzed in detail.”

“Huh?”, Harry is genuinely surprised. He rattles down a mental list of the things he packed in the morning. “Sorry but I think you got that wrong.”

“There is nothing to worry about.”, she smiles at him shyly. “It is protocol. Items that cannot be identified during radiography that have a certain… structure need to be investigated in detail. It happens sometimes when a lot of items are shrunk to fit a tight space.”

Now Harry does roll his eyes visibly. The security witch is starting to sound like the handbook of border control regulations. 

“If you would be so kind as to step into the separee number four over there.” She points to a row of curtains separated by wooden struts that oddly remind Harry of confessional boxes.

“I do fucking mind”, he mutters silently but picks up his bag before he tries one last time. “You couldn’t possibly make an exception for a poor guy who just came all the way from New York and really, really needs a coffee? A colleague of sorts, after all?”

“I am afraid not.”, she says. At least she hesitated, Harry sighs inwardly.

There is another security witch waiting for him inside the separee number four. She is older and looks even more annoyed than her colleague. 

“Well then, let’s get this over with. Cloak off and bag open, if you please.”, she barks.

Harry slips out of his travel cloak and is about to open his bag when a shout startles him.

“You are NOT bloody opening this bottle! It is worth more than your monthly pay cheque as it is and bloody WORTHLESS if you dare even just crack the seal!”

Muffliatos do have their limits, Harry thinks, and this organ goes far beyond them. The voice, as distorted as it sounds, is strangely familiar to him. The security witch in front of him stems her hands into her sides. 

“Now, you won’t give me that kind of shite, will you?”

Harry suppresses a laugh and shakes his head. He is smiling though. “I wouldn’t dare.”, he answers. 

The witch casts a doubtful look at him but leaves the matter be. She turns towards Harry’s bag, a black-and-white saddlebag that does not hide how often it has been dragged through summer storms and winter blizzards. It is Harry’s private holdall, spacious enough to contain enough clothes for weeks, toiletries, and anything else he might want to have on him if he just so happens to run into someone he might want to spend more than just a leisure

evening with. Options can’t hurt, in Harry’s opinion, and the automated shrinking charm makes sure that no amount of sex toys could weigh the bag down all too much. It has been on the heavier side this morning, Harry thinks, now that the thought crosses his mind. Which reminds him that he has not bothered removing anything from it before he threw in some additional formal wear for the holiday celebrations. 

“Open the bag, please?”, the officer repeats. So much as to no shit, Harry thinks.

“Yeah, um, listen…”, Harry stutters and does not quite know why this is making him nervous. He had no qualms opening his bags on his weekend trip to San Jose. But then, Jimmy had been standing right next to him in line and something about his lover getting to see but not quite yet experience what Harry had brought along had turned him on. The way Jimmy’s pupils had dilated when he watched one item after another being laid out on the little plastic trays is a memory Harry treasures. 

“Yes?” The security witch’s level of annoyance has risen from average grumpiness to dangerously pissed. Harry swallows. For a few seconds, he thinks that he might still get through this with charisma and a few nice words. He even starts considering to mention his name but dismisses the idea immediately. None of that, especially not if that ruddy bag does get searched in the end.

“Look, I really don’t know why I’m here at all. There’s just a bunch of private junk in my bag, and most of it isn’t even magical, just a bit shrunken, so…” He sighs. “I’d really appreciate it if we could just leave the bag be.”

“You are aware of the fact that your uncooperativeness does not shine the bright light of trustworthiness on you?”

“Listen, I know how this sounds. I’m working at the DMLE at MACUSA, alright? But you have got to let me keep some privacy, yeah?”

“No you will NOT open my private belongings!”, comes the affirmation from the neighboring separee. “And I WILL call my lawyer if necessary and then Dumbledore himself won’t be able to drag your sorry arse out of the hole you are digging for yourself here!”

“Everything alright over there?”, Harry’s security witch asks, one hand already at the curtain. Her hand is on her wand. Harry wonders whether he might just about be able to sneak out with a tiny little short-term memory occlusion spell and a bit of luck.

“Errr… a little misunderstanding, Gloria noth-” What seems to be the security wizard in the neighboring separee is cut off by his subject.

“MISUNDERSTANDING? It’s a bloody disgrace! I demand to see the officer in charge, NOW!”

“Alright, that’s enough!”, Gloria decides and opens the curtain with a determined pull. Harry tries to catch a glimpse at the other side but Gloria’s broad stature occludes most of it. He can barely make out a short wizard in his mid-forties wearing the same pale-blue uniform as Gloria who looks like a mouse cornered by a very hungry cat.

“Lads, this is the end of my ten-hour shift. I don’t bloody care what dirty secrets you are hiding but I am not going to deal with them before lunch.” Gloria throws a darting look back at Harry. “So you, Oscar, are taking the two of them for a proper pat down and their bags to enhanced customs control.” She huffs. “And I am going home to a good curry and a beer.”

Oscar blinks rapidly a few times and gulps. “Of course, Gloria.”

“And don’t let that snot get to you.”, Gloria says to Oscar before she turns to leave. “He’s tried it with all of us.”

“Well, then, Sirs, if you would please follow me.”, Oscar stutters and pulls the curtain around the corner, revealing the man with the impressive lung capacity.

The uncanny familiarity of his voice immediately makes sense to Harry, now. There is only one family in the wizarding world with that shade of blonde on their heads. Draco Lucius Malfoy is glaring at him with crossed arms, surrounded by several wooden crates and an aura of anger. He has grown into a tall man with slim shoulders, an even slimmer waist, and a sharp-angled face that has lost all traces of boyishness. If not for his height, he would be the perfect seeker, Harry thinks while he lets his eyes wander. The cut of Malfoy’s dress robes emphasizes his long legs and hints at some nice sets of muscles underneath the fabric. He likes men like Malfoy who are somewhat indeterminate - slender but tall, fragile without looking weak, cold with a promise of heat. He mentally pinches himself. This is not the time or the place and most definitely not the person to have these thoughts about.

“Are you done staring?”, Malfoy barks. 

Harry blinks and looks Malfoy in the eye. Does he not recognize him? No, there is no hint of recognition in Malfoy’s gaze. On the contrary, Malfoy’s eyes are wandering just as Harry’s had a moment ago. A little voice that remarkably sounds like Tracey’s coos in Harry’s head: Now please do look at that! Harry reflexively straightens his spine. He knows that the baggy jeans and the worn-out t-shirt may not be the most flattering attire but his inner Tracey insists that he can pass muster not despite but because it makes him look casually disinterested in

his own appearance. And perhaps because the jeans sit low enough on his hips to show off a bit of skin if his shirt happens to inch up a little. Merlin, why does he think about that now? Is he seriously trying to flirt with Malfoy?

“If we might…?”, Oscar squeaks from the main hall. 

Harry scrambles to gather his coat and bag. He needs to get his thoughts sorted and away from his childhood enemy. That is what he is, after all, Herr reminds himself. As if his life had not been enough of an eccentric multi-volume novel already. Meanwhile, Malfoy is already on his way out, crates levitating behind him. He brushes past Harry a few inches closer as necessary. A strong whiff of perfume accompanies him, cedar and sandalwood and something that reminds Harry of the Brooklyn shores. He shakes his head and follows Malfoy, frowning at the crates blocking the view. He would have liked a glimpse at how much these fitted trousers reveal about the shape of the butt they are covering. Mental pinching is a horribly ineffective means for getting one’s thoughts in line, Harry realizes.

Oscar escorts them to the end of the curtain row where two massive oak doors loom below the crest of the British Ministry of Magic. They are a good bit more intimidating than the flimsy curtains. The room behind them looks sterile and slightly unkempt. It is empty apart from a line of uncomfortable looking chairs. 

“Please wait here. An officer will be with you shortly.”, Oscar announces and closes the doors behind Harry and Malfoy before either can say a word. 

“Brilliant.”, Malfoy mutters and lets himself drop on a chair. It squeaks. “As if I wouldn’t have anything better to do than spend half my working time arguing with customs.”

Harry does not dare to respond. By now, he is quite sure that Malfoy has not recognized him and he would like to keep it at that. No need to let his voice betray him.

“You should sit down. As I know them, they are going to let us simmer in here for another hour - just for good measure and because we pissed off Gloria before lunch.” 

Harry hesitates. He is tempted to take a seat next to Malfoy. He wants to figure out what it is about his smell that reminds him of the ocean and he wants to take a proper look at the face that is so similar and yet so different from the one of the teenager he remembers. He knows that it is risky to get closer, that it jeopardizes his so far well-guarded anonymity. He likes that. It makes his heart throb one beat faster. His fingertips twitch when he thinks of sitting close enough to brush them against the silky fabric of Mafloy’s robes. He curses himself for being such a sensation seeker, drawn to danger whatever way it comes at him, has always been, will always be. It makes him feel alive. Harry swallows and internally cuffs himself. He drops his bag on the chair next to Malfoy, erecting a safety barrier. He allows himself to take a seat on its left, at a somewhat proper distance from Malfoy.

“Short trip?”, Malfoy asks with a dismissive glance at the crumpled bag. He raises one eyebrow at it and Harry could kill him for the expression. It draws attention to the delicateness of his features, how the arch of his eyebrows guides the eye down the straight nose to thin, pink lips that have just the slightest arch to them. They look like they want to be kissed, and not in a gentle way.

“Kneazle got your tongue?”, Malfoy follows up. He sounds impatient but not annoyed. Harry has been taught how to read people and he is good at it. Malfoy does not like being ignored, never has. He needs attention and right now he wants Harry’s. For what reason is what Harry still needs to figure out. He allows himself a faint smile and a look into Mafloys eyes. They are a hypnotizing swirl of blue and gray and they are scanning his face with overt interest. Harry draws the rim of his baseball cap a little lower. He thinks his scar is well-hidden by a mass of unruly hair but better safe than sorry. He pats himself on the shoulder for having taken the trouble to switch glasses for contact lenses this morning.

“Kind of a short trip.”, Harry replies. He tries to use the deeper register of his voice, one that Malfoy is less likely to know, and not quite accidentally the one that has made many a pair of knees wobble. “I’m visiting for a few weeks.”

“And this is all you brought?”, Malfoy asks and tries to lift Harry’s holdall with one pale finger. He fails and Harry can see a few jigsaw pieces fitting together in his head. “What is in there that made you end up in here?”

Harry does not want to grin but he cannot help himself. He bites the tip of his tongue to prevent a giggle and a rash response. He watches Malfoy lean closer towards him, curiosity darting from his eyes. And then there is that smell again, a scent of water and forest, musk trailing behind. Herry wants to bury his nose in it. Oh yes, right there in the crook of that long neck, his mental Tracey swoons. Harry cannot deny that the idea sounds appealing. The one open button of Malfoy’s shirt reveals only just the edge of his collarbone. The overall chastity of the outfit makes Harry want to tear it into pieces. It feels like sitting in front of a delicately wrapped Christmas present and not being allowed to open it when all that’s on your mind is ripping the wrapping paper apart. 

“Nothing in there that I wouldn’t carry around on a normal day.”, Harry answers vaguely. He is not a liar. He just knows how to choose his words. It’s a bit of a Slytherin trait, bolstered during Auror training. 

“Ah, normal can have so many meanings.”, Malfoy says. With every sentence, he leans closer.

Malfoy is flirting and Harry quite enjoys it. He knows that it is madness and that it can only end badly but that intrigues him. It feels forbidden and reckless. Harry’s fingertips start to tickle again. Malfoy is still hovering over his bag, one hand resting on it lightly, playing with its clasp. Harry has forgotten to renew the closing spell on it after he opened it at the security checkpoint. He watches Malfoy’s hand closely, manicured fingers and all. It is the polar opposite of Harry’s callused, blistered and scarred hands that never seem to be completely clean, always stained with either dirt or ink or something unidentifiable. Malfoys hands look perfectly cared for, soft, and Harry wonders how their touch would feel on his skin. A shudder goes down his spine. He is playing with fire, and he is a proper pyromaniac when it comes to men. 

And then, before Harry can decide whether he wants to risk a first-degree burn, Malfoy’s hand slips under the flap of the saddlebag. Herry’s breath catches. Before he can exhale, say something, Malfoy draws out his hand again. A leather collar unfolds to its normal size. 

Malfoy’s eyes widen for just a second. He does not mistake the collar for a fashion item. Then the corners of his mouth twitch upwards and his eyes meet Harry’s again, dark now, and intensely blue.

“Just a normal day in…?”, he asks.

All Harry can do is breathe out a quiet “Brooklyn”. 

This is definitely a second-degree burn, he thinks and watches Malfoy turning the collar in his hand. It is the generic kind, black and sturdy, with a single metal ring attached to the front. The dark leather contrasts beautifully with Malfoy’s pale skin and Harry cannot stop his mind from drawing the picture of the collar around Malfoy’s neck, wrapping around it tightly, forcing Malfoy to keep his head upright, to look at him. Harry’s eyes wander to that very neck, escaping Malfoy’s eyes that are still watching him intently. Malfoy’s throat is meticulously shaven, outlines of veins faintly visible, his adam's apple pronounced and shaking just a bit too much to match his outer cool. Harry wants to put his lips right there, sink his teeth into the flesh next to it, leave a mark on that even skin. He swallows hard.

“Well then,”, Mafloy starts and his voice is turning husky. “I should visit Brooklyn next time a trip to New York comes up.” 

Malfoy lets the collar run through the palm of his hand, his eyes fixed on Harry’s mouth. He uncrosses his legs, drawing Harry’s attention to his lap. Merlin, Harry would have never thought that he would ever stare at Malfoy’s groin, but he has lost control of his eye movements. And either Malfoy has already lost some control himself or his pants were not tailored to fit his crotch. Neither helps Harry to unglue his gaze from the bulge underneath the ultramarine fabric. He starts to wonder whether he arrived in London dangerously underfucked.

“Maybe you could even show me around.”, Malfoy continues and stands up. The collar dangles at his side. “Show me what such a ‘normal’ day in Brooklyn looks like.”

All of a sudden, Harry feels small and defenseless. Malfoy takes the two small steps that separate them. He stands closer than casual flirting distance, his knee brushing Harry’s. The collar dangles in front of Harry’s chest, clinks faintly with every little sway. And now the image in Harry’s head reverses, showing him wearing that collar, Mafloy’s hands closing it around his neck. He has not felt the firm, smooth leather on his throat in a long time, has preferred to exert power instead of giving it up. Right now, he is not sure whether he has any power over the situation whatsoever. His body defies his control. His heart is rushing towards a violent rhythm, blood flushes to his cheeks and his prick. This is crazy, he thinks, Good Godric, you are fucked.

Malfoy raises his empty hand to Harry’s cheek. It quivers ever so slightly but when he touches Harry, the motion is determined, his grasp firmer than needed. His fingers dig harshly into Harry’s jaw, lift Harry’s chin, turn his head to face Malfoy. Harry is pulled forward in his chair, his right knee between Malfoy’s legs, and before his mind can catch up with the situation, his hands follow the momentum of the movement, landing on Malfoys hips. The air in the room feels warm and sticky, and suddenly, Harry cannot breathe it in properly. He needs to open his mouth, needs to somehow slow down his breathing, his heart, the world as a whole because it feels like it is spinning too fast. 

Malfoy looks at him like a wildcat at her prey, hungry, almost starving, with a primal greed that has nothing to do with the outward callousness he set out to display. He looks needy. Harry realizes that he is not the only one who operates on hormonal autopilot. A knowing smile steals itself on his lips. His fingers tighten around Malfoy’s sharp hipbones. He knows it cannot be real but he swears that he feels goosebumps rising underneath his fingertips.

“You are really something, aren’t you?”, Malfoy whispers. The collar falls to the floor with a soft clonk. His free hand grabs the neckline of Harry’s shirt. He pulls Harry closer to his groin, facing his undeniably strained fly, closer, as if he wanted to say ‘look at what you are doing to me’. Harry licks his lips because they have gone dry and because the movie that is playing on his mental screen races down memory lane. God knows he has sucked many a cock and there is too much material to choose from. It’s a kaleidoscope of images, of echoes of moans. Malfoy’s smell permeates the air he breathes, and there is more to it, now, than the intoxicating perfume, it is the scent of his sweat, his arousal, that turns Harry on. 

“Some say that”, Harry replies, words without meaning. He speaks only to see the effect of the airflow on Malfoy’s cock. His lips are almost close enough to brush against it. Harry’s own erection has long gone from a vague concern to an undeniable fact. All other circumstances have faded to a dim background noise. Harry is infatuated, aware of it, and utterly unwilling to fight it. He has not felt this way in years, not since this glorious first year of adventuring with Zach and Tracey, since he first felt the erection of another man rub against his thigh, ropes wrap around his wrists, eyes on his naked body while he fucked his lover. He tells himself that it does not matter who stands in front of him, makes his thighs tremble, because it is ridiculous. He shoos that thought away, telling his consciousness he will deal with it later.

“Circe, don’t talk.”, Malfoy breathes. “Your mouth could do so much better things…”

“Tell me.” Harry does not have to search for the deeper register of his voice anymore. It is raspy and rough. “Tell me what my mouth can do.”

Malfoy’s fingers dig deeper into Harry’s jaw, his nails start to scratch against the skin and the permanent stubble that Harry is too lazy to shave off. 

“Oh, I am sure that mouth of yours can suck cock amazingly.” Malfoy’s eyes have turned hazy. “I’m sure it knows exactly how to wrap around it, take it all in, little by little, until it’s stuffed and you are starting to gag.”

Harry feels the blood throbbing in his crotch. But Malfoy has only just started.

“I wonder… do you still gag at all? Or has that pretty little mouth of yours swallowed so many pricks already that you can just take it?”

Harry wants to moan but suppresses the sound. Malfoy’s fingers at his jaw are hot, their pressure against the bone almost painful. He lets his own hands wander to Malfoy’s ass in response, gripping it tightly. Malfoy flexes his muscles, letting Harry feel exactly how firm they are, it is almost a promise for more. 

“Ah, I think you can take it, you are a good slag, aren’t you? I bet you would take my prick right here and now. Suck me off in the middle of the station.”

Harry swallows hard. He has forgotten about that. But now that Malfoy mentions it, it changes nothing. What is the difference between a bathroom stall and this godforsaken room, anyway, except that it smells better and offers more space? 

“Didn’t you say they’d let us wait for hours?”, Harry counters. He is a bit scared of his own audacity, all Gryffindor bravery aside. But his hands are already leaving the tempting curves of Malfoy’s ass and are on their way to his groin. He can practically feel Malfoy’s eyes grow wide and round.

“Fuck, you really are something.”

“Yeah, we’ve discussed that already.”, Harry chuckles. He does not remember when the tables have turned but he loves topping from the bottom. It suits him, he thinks, even though there are not many who can return the pressure, play the delicate game of push and pull, who fight for the right for dominance even when they know that they have lost it at the very beginning. He tentatively presses the palm of his hand against Malfoy’s erection. It twitches and Malfoy lets out a shaky breath. Harry wonders how far he could take this without ever using his mouth after all.

“Merlin, don’t you dare…”

“What?”

“Don’t you dare stop right there or I swear I will hex your bollocks off.”, Malfoy blurts out. He lets go of Harry’s shirt and grabs his neck instead, fingers tangled in the thick, black curls. For a second, Harry wants to talk back but the thought is wiped away by his own desire to continue, to see Malfoy crumble in front of him, to watch him shake and listen to him moan. 

“I would never dare.”, he answers instead. The tone of his voice hovers at the edge of sass. 

And Malfoy does moan beautifully when Harry opens his pants, replacing the fabric with his hands immediately, letting them reach for Malfoy’s uncovered cock. Harry takes a moment to take note of that, a short one because the image of Malfoy’s erection right in front of his face eliminates any coherent thought. The swollen flesh is a soft pink, smooth and surrounded by auburn curls. It is a beautiful cock, perfect to the touch. Harry runs his fingers up its length and lets his palm wrap around it as he moves his hand down again. 

“Shit.”, Malfoy huffs. “You are a crazy whore.”

Harry hums at that and starts stroking Malfoy’s prick. His grip is firm, the rhythm intense. There is no foreplay on his mind, he wants Malfoy reduced to a whimpering, begging mess, now. His mouth hovers an inch from the tip of Malfoy’s cock, teasing. He can feel one of Malfoy’s hands pushing against the base of his neck, the other reaching into his hair, grabbing a fist full, pulling once, letting go, shaking with anticipation. 

“Oh, but you like that.”, Harry says, allowing his tongue to slip out, taste the first drop of precum. 

“Hell, yes.”, Malfoy groans as his hips twitch forward. Harry pushes them back, denying Malfoy to set the pace.

“Ah-ah”, Harry scolds and eases the pressure of his hand around Malfoy’s cock. “Don’t be pushy.”

“I’ll show you pushy.”, Malfoy snarls but does not act on it. He is too far gone, too desperate for Harry’s touch to do it. His fingers wander aimlessly through Harry’s hair. His thumb brushes along the soft spot behind Harry’s ear, making him shudder. It is the one square inch on his body that sends hot flashes of arousal through his system upon the lightest touch. He moans and takes the head of Malfoy’s cock into his mouth, pushing the foreskin back, letting his tongue brush over the sensitive skin. It tastes salty and bitter, like memories of lost lovers but better in a way that Harry cannot describe. Malfoy’s hips roll forward again, and this time Harry lets him, lets him shove his erection deeper into his mouth, forcing it to open wider. 

“Holy shit.”, Malfoy whispers, his voice cracking. Harry hums his approval, knowing all too well about the vibrations he sends along. He is lost in the act of sucking Malfoy’s prick, feeling the hot flesh grow and harden in his mouth, pulse palpable. It feels surreal. He is hot. His own erection is starting to push against his jeans, begging for attention. He reaches into his pants, pushing the waistband aside. The first touch is delicious, sending a wave of pleasure through his entire body. He grips his own dick firmly, starts moving it in sync with his other that strokes the base of Malfoy’s cock. 

“God damn it, you are getting off on this, aren’t you?”, Malfoy breathes. 

Harry responds by swallowing Malfoy’s prick deeply, once, twice. Malfoy’s hips buck, his cock twitch in response. Harry can taste that Malfoy is close, bitterness fills his mouth and it is oddly delicious. He intensifies his efforts, moves his hands faster. Malfoy’s stifled moans encourage him, push him further. His head feels light and dizzy, empty but for the immediate sensations raining down on him. They are a storm of lust and want, and he feels his own orgasm inching closer with every pump, every lick, every erratic stroke of Malfoy’s fingers on his neck, on this one damned spot that makes him twitch and wince.

“Yes. Fuck. Don’t stop.”, Mafloy stutters. “Don’t you dare… Fuck.”

He comes with a low growl, finger digging deep into Harry’s skin, and the intensity of it, the uncensored bliss, the sudden pain of nails breaking through his skin, the warmth of Malfoy’s spunk in his mouth, is almost enough to get Harry off. He groans deeply, letting Malfoy’s prick slip out of his mouth, letting go, and finally, with a few violent, desperate strokes, he pushes himself over the edge. He comes right there and then, in his pants, like a sodding teenager. He does not care. As if he has had a choice. His head is spinning and his limbs are trembling. 

“Chist, I didn’t believe you’d go for it.”, Malfoy huffs, throwing his head back. Beads of sweat glitter on his jaw and forehead. His cheeks are a deep pink, his lower lip is swollen and red, tooth marks visible. 

There is an awkward silence as Harry pulls his hand out of his pants and his head away from Malfoy’s crotch. His hands are shaky when he reaches for his wand. There is a soothing routine to casting the cleaning spells. Automatically, he also includes Malfoy’s middle, removing the evidence of the impossibility that has just happened. It takes him three attempts, as usual, to get rid of all the sweat and cum. Harry hates household spells. 

Malfoy clears his throat. “Well, someone got experience with this.”, he remarks.

“Just a normal day in Brooklyn.”, Harry says with a wry smile. He lets himself fall against the back of the chair. His body feels limp. He wonders how Malfoy manages to still stand upright. 

“You’re impossible.”

“Says the guy whose pants are still halfway undone.”

“Says the bloke who still has my spunk in his beard.”

Harry swears and runs a hand over the stubble around the corner of his mouth. In another fit of hubris, he licks the last remains of Malfoy’s cum from his fingers. 

“Slag.”, is Mafloy’s only comment.

“Jesus, you are so fucking British.”

“Don’t pretend to be more American than you are. It’s horribly vulgar.”

Harry raises his eyebrows at that. All of a sudden, the threat of Malfoy recognizing him has become dreadfully real again. He scans the other’s face for a clue but it has returned to its usual poise. Only the redness of Malfoy’s lips still betrays what has happened during the last few minutes. It is an alluring sight, Harry thinks, and only a small part of him is disappointed that Malfoy does not look a bit more ruffled. He wonders what Mafloy looks like after a proper shag - mussed hair, glowing skin and all. At least in his mind it’s a glorious sight. He officially diagnoses his current state as desperately underfucked. He should have visited Jimmy before leaving. It cannot be healthy to keep thinking about Malfoy in this way. 

“I believe this belongs to you.” Malfoy holds out the collar with a grin. “If you continue your stay in London like this, you might need it.”

“Erm, thanks.”, Harry mutters and stuffs the collar back into his bag. Little by little, his brain returns to something that at least resembles normal working capacity, and it starts protesting heavily against the fact that he just blew his former arch enemy in the middle of the London International Portkey Station. There is no cheekiness left in him, just a growing sense of a catastrophe looming in the all-too-near future.

Malfoy seems disappointed by this sudden change in attitude. He is about to return to his chair when the double doors open.

“Pardon the wait but we are a bit busy here, holidays coming up and all.”, a lanky witch in the darker blue uniform of a higher ranking security officer announces as she walks into the room. “Now, Mr. Malfoy, why do we have the honor this time? I do hope you have not hexed Gloria’s mouth shut again. I will send you the bill from St. Mungo’s again, and I won’t leave it at that!”

Malfoy crosses his arms and shrugs his shoulders. He is good at switching roles, Harry thinks. The shock on Malfoy’s face had only been visible for a fraction of a second when the doors swung open. Now, he is all business man again. Harry seriously wonders what Malfoy usually gets up to when he, as he apparently has been repeatedly, has to wait in here.

“I swear to you, Margret, I have not so much as touched my wand.” Malfoy is gritting his teeth but does not lose his cool. He steps back to his crates and manages to smile winningly at the officer. “Now, we both know that I am just returning from Jerome’s vineyard and that there is nothing to be brought from there but some of the best elf-made wine in Europe. And it would be a shame if it was confiscated and I could not leave so much as a single bottle reserved for you at Blochard’s Bottles, would it not?”

“Very well.” Margaret does not look convinced but leaves it at that. “And whom else have you dragged into this mess?” She turns to Harry. “I am quite sorry, Mister - could you remind me of your name?”

Harry freezes. His thoughts are turning summersaults. Worst case scenario, here we come, he thinks. He does not dare to think about the consequences of informing Malfoy about who just sucked him off and in the process wanked himself into oblivion. Should he just lie? It seems dangerous at this point. After all, there are identification spells and from the sour-looking expression on Margret’s face, he believes she might cast one if he so much as stutters. He cannot think of an intermediate solution. Instead, the image of the headline on the Prophet crystalizes in his mind: Lechery at LIPS - Has the US corrupted Britain’s former Golden Boy? Which would be the nice version, he thinks. But then, Malfoy could not let anything slip without turning himself in. That is Harry’s only hope, now. That and a firm promise to himself that he will do anything he needs to avoid running into Malfoy again. He will only stay for 25 days after all. He will manage.

“Harry James Potter.”, he says quietly.

Malfoy’s eyes grow wide.

Margaret scrambles to make excuses for herself, her colleagues, and the entire custom's office. Harry couldn't care less. All he wants to do is grab his bags and flee the room as quickly as possible. 

Welcome home.


	2. December 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Hyde Park turns out to be a dangerous place, Harry takes revenge, and Malfoy needs to learn how to handle a little cold.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!”, Harry shouts at the erection that is cheerfully greeting him from under the blanket. 

Not that this never happened to him anymore. He usually does not mind either, at least as long as there are a few minutes left before he has to rush to work. A good morning wank is not the worst way to wake up, in his opinion, morning sex of course still being the preferred option. But these scenarios do not include a prelude of dreams about blow jobs at the portkey station. Alright, some of them maybe could, even should. But under no circumstances whatsoever should Draco Malfoy be part of them, not his sharp-nailed fingers, not his stormy-blue eyes, not his crunchy ass and least of all his perfectly-proportioned cock.

Harry growls in frustration. He curses his life, his hormones, and his uncontrollable brain. He feels like an infatuated teenager minus the warm-and-fuzzy feelings plus erotic phantasies on steroids. He has spent far too much time yesterday dissecting what had happened at custom’s. He has no intention to stumble down that slippery slope again. It had only ended in too much Odgen’s Finest once, he does not anticipate a better ending the second time.

He throws the blanket aside. Reproachful staring does not deter his prick in the slightest. A cold shower it is, Harry decides. He doubts the boiler at Grimmauld Place would grant him the privilege of hot water anyways. Kreacher has, much to his astonishment, kept the house in somewhat inhabitable shape, but just barely. He will have to fix the boiler and some pipes later today, he thinks.

Before he can concentrate on that, he needs to clear his mind though. Harry does not have to think twice about lacing up his running shoes. It is a dreary morning, high fog blurs out the weak winter sun. He does not mind. Bad weather means empty streets and Merlin knows he does not want to run into anyone today. He will need to let his friends know that he is in town, soon, but he also needs twenty-four more hours to recuperate. He can tell them later that he was jet-lagged. Nobody needs to know that he has no issues with changing time zones.

The familiar feeling of his feet hitting the concrete soothes Harry. It is a simple rhythm left-right, left-right, left-right. The air burns in his lungs, it is colder than in New York, his fingers have gone numb after the first mile. He does not mind. He just wishes his mind would go numb, too. He has another five or six miles to go before he can hope for that though. Running has become a habit in New York, where everyone either runs or takes spinning classes or practices yoga. Harry had opted for the first option after spectacularly falling off his bike during his first visit to Soul Cycle and discovering that he ended up fucking his yoga instructors with such regularity that he started to skip the initial yoga part altogether. The downside of his running habit for today’s purpose is that it takes him at least one hour to break a sweat unless he sprints. Harry hates sprinting. It reminds him of running for his life and he has had enough of that already. 

So he trots along, music blaring through his headphones, drowning out his inner monologue. When Harry reaches Hyde Park, he is humming along, his steps following the beat of the song. He breathes easier now and even the opaque outline of the sun seems a little brighter. Hyde Park is deserted apart from the few people that have been dragged out by their dogs. Harry lets his legs run, spin under his torso without needing his control. He sighs deeply, shoving memories from yesterday aside, concentrating on the path in front of him. 

Where a shetland pony-sized dog is about to take a run-up. It is a massive great dane with a head bigger than Harry’s - and it is coming towards him. Harry stares at it for a second, its long legs flying in all directions. He veers to the right but the dog mirrors his manoeuvre. Apparently it is not running somewhere but chasing something - Harry. He looks around, searching for any sign of the dog’s owner. There is none, and the dane is coming closer. He pushes his headphones down, hoping to hear the saving shout of the beast’s owner. No such luck. He starts to panic a little. Apart from the fact that he has no clue whether this dog wants to play or hunt - little differences as it might make - any sort of collision with the beast must end badly. Harry is not the scrawny teenager he used to be but the momentum of a one-hundred-plus-pound dane will knock him out regardless. He knows that from rather painful experience. He comes to an abrupt halt, his toes crashing against the tip of his trainers, and turns on the spot. He starts running away from the dog, speeds up to a sprint. He glances over his shoulder but the dog is still in his pursuit. Harry curses and hops unto the lawn. He has the vague hope that the great dane will just continue straight. They are not the cleverest breed if he remembers right. And if he continues into the little grove up there, it might as well run into a tree before it runs into Harry. He quickens his steps, casts another glance over his shoulder, and the dog finally does seem to fall behind. Sometimes, strategic retreat really is the best option.

“Hey! Hold on what the-”

And sometimes, it goes horribly, horribly wrong. Harry hears the shouts as he crashes into something tall and solid. And before he knows it, he is lying face-down on the ground. Though the ground feels oddly warm and soft for frost-covered grass. 

“Christ! What has gotten into - Potter?!”

Harry has been about to open his eyes. He closes them again. He knows this voice. He has gotten to experience its full register just twenty or so hours ago. It is impossibly improbable. There are eight million people in London. He refuses to believe what his ears are telling him. But if he opens his eyes, they might confirm it, so he keeps them shut. The problem with that being, of course, that getting up from the ground blind is not an easy feat. 

“Mother Morgana, what are you doing here?” 

There it is again, Malfoy’s voice. The one and only, shouting edition. Harry sighs deeply. He declares himself defeated and opens his eyes. And there he is, Draco Malfoy, clad in a dark gray winter coat, its fur collar framing his pale face, blond hair spread in a tangled mess around him. His eyes are a darting ice blue from Harry’s angle, their faces are awkwardly close. Harry can spot the individual, pale blond lashes that frame his eyes, and a faint scar that crosses his left eyebrow. The tip of Malfoy’s nose is red from the cold, and together with the disarray of hair and fur around him, he looks almost adorable. If it was not for the tightly clenched jaw and deep frown.

“I… was on a run?”, Harry tries. He is too busy staring at Malfoy to consider moving. He is kneeling over Malfoy, hands on either side of his shoulders, knees planted next to his hips.

“Evidently, Potter. Not even your absent sense of fashion could be questionable enough to feature tights for anything else. I hope.”, Malfoy snarls. Little does he know, Harry thinks, but bites his tongue. “You might consider running on a bloody path instead of running over people, for Christ’s sake.”

Harry blushes. “There was a dog…”, he starts.

“Oh, Merlin’s balls, it’s Hyde Park, Potter, of course there are dogs!”, Malfoy barks. 

“It was chasing me!”

“Get a grip, Potter! Are you telling me the oh so grand saviour of the world is afraid of a little pooch?”

“It was a fucking great dane!”, Harry defends himself. Some part of him registers the absurdity of the conversation but it makes markedly little difference. A much bigger part quite enjoys the view of a ruffled Malfoy on the ground between his thighs. 

“Fine, a big pooch.” Malfoy rolls his eyes. Harry starts wondering when he will tell him to get off. But Malfoy just continues, leaving Harry wondering. “Are we having some sort of queer PTSD involving canines? You’re a bloody wizard, don’t tell me you cannot handle a pet out of control!”

“Ever heard of wizarding law, Malfoy? Secrecy act and such?”, Harry counters. He is not about to let Malfoy know that he runs without his wand. It is a bad habit, Yael keeps reminding him, but he never knows where to put it, and for smaller inconveniences, he knows enough wandless spells to manage. 

“Still the morality police, Potter, really? Wouldn’t have guessed after yesterday.” Malfoy grins. And Circe knows, it is a dirty grin, one-sided and cheeky, and it makes Harry shiver. There is an invisible string pulling him towards Malfoy, towards that dangerously flirtatious I-know-how-to-get-to-you attitude. “But then you are working for the MACUSA, aren’t you? Brave little Auror, am I right? I bet the uniform suits you.”

“Uniform fetish much?”, Harry replies before he can think better of it. He delights in the silent gasp that leves Malfoy’s mouth just an inch ajar. “Must have made for some interesting wanking material back in the day.”

“Judging others by your own standards, Potter?” Malfoy has regained his composure quickly. Not an easy feat, lying on the frozen ground, Harry notes. “Whom did we get off on back in the day? And don’t tell me the Weaselette, everybody knew that you could not get it on with her. Been riding the broom from the other end from the very beginning, no?”

It is Harry’s time to grin because for once, Malfoy is wrong. “Still thinking black-and-white, Malfoy? And here I thought you were clever, in your own stupid ways.”

Malfoy does not stir. “I see, just taking everything that walks on two legs then, huh? Greedy much?”

Harry laughs. He knows that Malfoy has meant to be disdainful. Instead, he reminded him of the mug Tracey has gifted him last Christmas. It features the slogan “Bi. Poly. Switch. Not undecided, just greedy.” in ever-changing rainbow colors. Of course, it also glitters. 

“You didn’t seem so appalled by that yesterday.”, Harry says. 

He can feel the conversation getting out of hand. He does not care. The worrying, rational part of him has waved goodbye and is not about to come back. It has taken the objections to flirting with the former Slytherin-bully extraordinaire with it. Harry has never excelled at self-control and his motivation to exert any is fading with every second Malfoy’s body continues to shift underneath him. His winter coat is spread open, body heat radiates up to Harry through a thin sweater. It is not much but enough to make Harry want to lean into it. Malfoy’s chest is rising and falling quickly. Harry can see the outline of his ribcage straining against the fabric and he wants to run his hands over it, find out whether it is as delicate to the touch as it appears. He does not know where this is coming from, this irrational want. It feels like an addiction that demands to be fed. But when did he acquire such a lust for the body of a man he has not seen in years, he has hated, loathed, his entire life?

“I’m not appalled. Just stating the facts.”, Malfoy says. His voice is hoarse. 

“And what’s the facts about Draco Malfoy these days?”, Harry asks. He is genuinely curious. 

“That’s none of your concern, Potter.”, Malfoy hisses through gritted teeth. Harry has hit a sore spot. 

“Fine, I guess I’ll just read up on your file, then.” Harry’s threat is empty but he delights in Malfoy’s panicked response.

“You have no access to those.”, Draco tries but Harry can see that he does not know whether he is right or wrong. There is a question mark hidden at the end of the sentence.

“Ah, but I can be very convincing when I want to get something.”, Harry whispers and lets his face inch closer to Malfoy’s. He can smell the perfume from yesterday again. Cedar, sandalwood and ocean, and a tiny hint of musk. It makes him dizzy.

“What  _ do _ you want, Potter?”, Malfoy asks.

You - the thought darts through Harry’s mind immediately. Its sharpness shocks him. He swallows hard. His mind goes blank, repeating you, you, you. He is at a complete loss for another word. And when he is at a loss for words, Harry acts. On a whim, he lets his hips shift down, pressing against Malfoy’s. He wants to be closer, wants to feel the outline of Malfoy’s body pressed against his own. Harry does not understand the urge, just feels it, deep in his veins. It is like poison slowly seeping through his system and he is not sure whether there is an antidote. Malfoy’s eyes grow huge, his mouth drops open but he does not protest. Harry moves his hip forward, slowly, tempting fate perhaps. 

“Dangerous question, Malfoy.”, Harry breathes. 

“Merlin, Potter, you are nuts.”

“I know.”, Harry replies, and his lips are moving closer to Malfoy’s neck as he says the words. He can feel a tremble running through the body beneath him. Malfoy’s scent mingles with the smell of grass and damp wool. “Gotta keep up with you, no?”

This is the revenge for yesterday, Harry thinks. He can live with that as an excuse for what he is doing. Malfoy may have ensnared him at the station, today is his turn to hold the reins. He places his mouth next to Malfoy’s ear. A stray strand of blond hair tickles his nose.

“What I want, Malfoy...”, Harry whispers, letting his breath brush over Mafloy’s skin. “What I want is to break you. To see you crack and crumble below my fingertips. To make you plead and beg. To make your arrogant little face flush with embarrassment. And I want to have my fun with it.”

Harry lets the words sink in. He is tempted to lift himself up again and watch the reaction on Malfoy’s face. But he contents himself with listening to Malfoy’s bated breath staggering back into an irregular rhythm, watching a wave of goosebumps crawl across his neck. 

“Objections?”, Harry probes. Affirmative consent is everything, after all. He means that.

“Always.”, Malfoy answers rather unconvincingly. The way he stretches his neck, exposing it for Harry, betrays him. “I don’t beg, Potter, I might negotiate if the terms are mutually agreeable.”

“Dammit, do you ever stop talking like Queen Mom?”, Harry growls. It is frustratingly arduous to put Malfoy out of sorts for more than a few seconds. But Harry is not one to be easily discouraged. It is time to haul out bigger guns. “Fine, then, let’s negotiate.”

And so lets his mouth sink on the bare skin of Malfoy’s neck, tongue brushing over it lightly. He runs it to the base of Malfoy’s earlobe, sucking in the tender skin, teeth grazing over it, and he can feel Mafloy’s body tensing, fighting against the urge to lean into his touch. 

“How much for a please?”, Harry asks.

He takes one hand off the ground and lets it hover over Mafloy’s torso. His fingertips are tickling with the desire to shove it underneath Mafloy’s sweater, expose the pale skin to the chill of the winter morning. He restrains himself while he still can. He lets his hand settle on Malfoy’s chest instead, fingertips searching for the outline of his nipples underneath the thin fabric. They are hard, it is cold, after all, and Harry delights in the way Malfoy grits his teeth and holds his breath when he starts taking one in a firm grip between his fingers, tugging and twisting. He presses one of his legs between Malfoy’s thighs, forcing his own between them. Malfoy’s swelling cock presses hard and hot against it, unhindered by the spandex of Harry’s running shorts. 

“How much for a pretty please?”, Harry whispers against Malfoy’s ear as he presses his leg firmly against Mafloy’s crotch. He wants to sink his hips down on him, badly. But this is not the moment to draw attention to his own greed. This is about driving Malfoy into submission, about letting him feel his own desperateness, not Harry’s. Harry intensifies the pressure on Malfoy’s prick, rubs against it, lets his nipple slip through his fingernails, his tongue run over the edge between his ear and neck.

Malfoy’s jaw is clenched shut. Harry can feel the urge to beg seethe below the surface of his quivering body. Oh, this moment tastes so sweet. The sight of Malfoy squirming beneath him, between his thighs, is more delightful he could have imagined. He wants this image burnt into his memory, every minute detail of it, down to the arch of the lashes on Malfoy’s half-closed eyes. His hand leaves Malfoy’s chest, wanders down, plays with the edge between shirt and waistband, he is careful not to let the fabric shift, not to give Malfoy anything he did not beg for. A faint whimper escapes Mafloy’s mouth.

“I’m listening.”, Harry coos and takes Malfoy’s earlobe between his teeth. 

Malfoy whimpers again, louder, more desperately. Harry lets his tongue run over the length of Malfoy’s outer ear. There is a breathless gasp. He pushes his leg against Malfoy’s middle, once, twice, harshly, leaning in with his entire body weight. It is almost like fucking him and that thought makes Harry’s hips twitch involuntarily. If this is already driving him mad with lust, what would it do to him to actually bury his dick in Mafloy’s ass, to shag him senseless?

“Fuck, god damn it, Potter!”, Malfoy hisses. 

“Not what I want to hear.”, Harry reminds him but he struggles to keep his own voice under control. His hand hovers over Malfoy’s crotch, barely enough to make its presence known.

“Shit. Ah. Come on!” Malfoy grinds against Harry’s body. His back arches off the ground, his shirt slides up, exposes his stomach, flat and white, framed by the contour of hip bones and ribs. 

“Just say it, Malfoy.” Harry pins Malfoy to the ground, one hand on his hip, one sliding under the wool of his shirt, pressing firmly against the smooth chest. “Say please.”

“Fuck you. Just… fine! Please!”, Malfoy shouts and there is so much need in his voice, Harry wants to drown himself in it, get drunk on the rush of power.

Harry is about to let his hand slide into Malfoy’s pants. He is about to sink his teeth deep into his neck. He is about to let Malfoy have it. And then a thunderous bark echoes through the grove, followed by the shout of a woman.

“Brutus! Brutus heeeere!”

Harry freezes, Malfoy jerks. There is another bark, closer.

“Brutus come back!”

They look at each other. It is hard to tell what is more surreal: where the situation was about to end or where it actually ended. Wood cracks, leaves rustle, and the next bark clearly announces that Brutus has found them.

“Brutus what the hell have you found?” 

Harry instinctively reaches for his wand holster, only to realize that it is not there.

“Shit”, he hisses and looks at Malfoy. “Camouflage spell, now!”, he commands. 

Malfoy stares at him as if he had just told him to juggle elephants while doing a one-armed handstand. 

“Goddammit.”, Harry swears again. Of course, Malfoy is not one of his sergeants. Camouflage spells are not exactly standard Hogwarts repertoire. It is also far too complex to be cast wandless. “Give me your wand!”

“What?” Malfoy scrambles to get up. “Forget it, Potter, I’m going to apparate out of here.”

“Too loud.”, Harry insists and reaches for Malfoy’s coat. There are only two places where a normal wizard keeps his wand: pocket or sleeve insert. He grabs Malfoy’s wand from the latter, knowing that someone like Malfoy would want to keep his defenses close. “Operimentum!”

Malfoy’s wand obeys without hesitation. A thin layer of magic drops over them, it feels like a thin layer of foil all over their bodies. Malfoy grimaces, it is not a pleasant feeling. He opens his mouth to complain but then Brutus comes crushing through the bushes next to them, owner in close pursuit.

Harry holds his breath and presses Malfoy and himself against the next tree. He is closer to him, now, than ever before, his back flush against Malfoy’s side, arm across his chest. Even with Brutus’ nose inching closer to them, Harry notices Malfoy’s scent, the warmth of his body, how easily it fits against his. It is an oddly intimate moment and Harry is grateful for the fact that they did not end up face to face. He can hear Malfoy’s breathing slow down, it must be a conscious effort, as Brutus sniffs his way towards them, slowly scanning the spot where they have been lying just a moment ago.

“Brutus, you wicked little pup!”

Harry suppresses a laugh. The woman who steps into the small opening in the grove cannot be taller than five foot two. When she grabs Brutus by the collar and attaches the leash, the dog’s shoulders reach up to her ribs. 

“Now, come on! I don’t have time for your adventures today.”

Brutus does not seem to like the idea of leaving his investigations unfinished but he follows the tug on his leash. As he turns to follow his owner, he looks back, right at their hiding spot, it seems.

“Fuck”, Harry sighs a moment later.

“Could I get that back?”, Malfoy snaps, reaching for his wand. Harry is still holding it, it fits well in his palm, almost like his own. He hands it over, a little confused. It does not happen often that a wand obeys someone else but his owner, at least not well, and this is the second time he has snatched Malfoy’s wand and used it without any problems. 

“Sorry, sure.”, he mutters.

The silence that follows is deeply uncomfortable. Harry drags his feet through the carpet brown leaves on the ground. They crackle, brittle from the frost that covers them. Their white cover reminds Harry that it is cold and that he is wearing only a thin layer of running gear. 

“Well, I should get going, it’s getting cold in this…”, he mumbles, vaguely gesturing at his tights and bare ankles. 

“Yes, Potter, you should.”, Malfoy says matter-of-factly. He looks past Harry at some spot in the distance. His coat and sweater are still in disarray, goosebumps cover his skin where it is still exposed to the winter air. Harry has a hard time to turn around and away from the image.

“Well then…”, he finally says, wondering what it is that makes it so bitter-sweetly addicting to look at Malfoy. For a moment he ponders whether they could continue where they left off. He had been so close to cracking Malfoy, to winning a mad, wicked, but oh so alluring game of power. 

The first steps out of the grove hurt, his feet are half-frozen and stiff, but he makes an effort not to totter and stumble. Lord knows what Malfoy would think that it comes from. Harry likes to think that he walks away from this involuntary encounter with Malfoy knowing that he has the upper hand in this. Even though he is not so sure whether that is true.


	3. December 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where siblings have reconciled, the Tonks house becomes a dangerous place, and Teddy is a far too innocent child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, my loves, I am a bit behind on schedule but the outline for 24 days is written, so bear with me and keep your fingers crossed for the weekend!

Harry decides that he needs to get on with his life, his normal, Malfoy-free, life. He has let ‘the incidents’, as he prefers to refer to them, already mess up his visit enough. His friends deserve better, especially after his long absence, and even more so the little family he has left. He had wanted to visit Teddy first thing after his arrival in London but then - he really does not want to think about it anymore.

The floo call to Andromeda yesterday has been awkward at first. Luckily, she has not seemed to hold a grudge against him. It is one of Andromeda’s traits that Harry admires the most: her ability to forgive and forget. She was disappointed when Harry announced that he was not coming back to the UK for the foreseeable future but it only took her a minute to get over these feelings and wish him the best. Harry could not think of a better foster mother for Teddy. When Harry told her that he is back in England for the month and that he wants to visit his godchild, her smile in response was bright and genuine. 

Now the only thing he still worries about is his present for Teddy. He looks at the crumpled package that he laid out on the mantle plate of the fireplace last night. The black-and-white wrapping paper in newspaper design looked stylish in the shop but now he thinks it might look a bit too much like he had actually ripped pages from the New York Chronicle. It is fairly obvious that the paper is hiding a kid-sized broom in any case. Harry only hopes that Teddy likes to fly, or will very soon. He knows way too little about his godchild.

He is determined to start changing this, now. 

“Harry Potter is leaving, Sir?”, Kreacher squeals. “Harry Potter is returning tonight?” 

“I’ll be home tonight.”, Harry answers. “You don’t need to worry about dinner though.” Please don’t, he adds silently. Kreacher’s cooking is more catastrophic than his cleaning and Harry does not want to repeat his encounter with the dish Kreacher announced as shepherd’s pie and turned out to be raw pastry with burnt minced meat. He meant well, Harry knows, but he still needs more time to get used to the idea that Kreacher does not hold a grudge against him anymore. 

“Then Kreacher will be waiting for the young master to return.”, Kreacher adds. “And Kreacher will have cold beer in fridge that master likes.” He seems proud of knowing about one of Harry’s favorite drinks already. Harry smiles at him. It has been a while since there was someone else who thinks about buying groceries for him. He has been living by himself the entire time, only interrupted by the spectacularly failed attempt to move in with Zach and Yael. 

“Thank you, Kreacher. That'll be nice.” With that, he grabs a pinch of floo powder and steps into the flames. 

He is greeted by a flash of bright yellow hair and a shrieking “Harry!” when he steps out of the fireplace at the other end. Before he can straighten his back, a broadly smiling Teddy is wrapped around his middle. 

“You came! You really came!”, Teddy shouts. “Just like Nana said!”

Teddy is small for a ten-year-old but he is astonishingly strong. His tight hug squeezes the air from Harry’s lungs.

“Yeah, of course I came, buddy!”

Harry ruffles Teddy’s hair with one hand, trying to keep his balance with the other that is still holding his present.

“But you are late!”, Teddy comments and looks up at Harry. His eyes look just like his father’s. Harry smiles at that and tousles Teddy’s hair. He has not had these warm and fuzzy feelings in a long time. When he tries to think back on a similar experience, he cannot name one.

“Ah, I’ll be early next time, then.”, he says instead of continuing that line of thought.

“Brilliant, you could help setting the table, then.”, Andromeda comments from the door frame. She smiles beamingly. “Now, come on, Teddy. I know you’re hungry. You’ve been grumpy for the past half hour.”

Andromeda gently detaches Teddy from Harry’s waist and grabs the broom present from Harry’s hand. “We will do that after lunch, yes?”, she quietly says to him, shoving Teddy through the door. Harry nods and follows Andromeda into the hallway.

“One more thing…”, Andromeda starts, hesitates.

“What’s the matter?” Harry’s head is racing through a series of increasingly improbable and catastrophic scenarios ranging from “Teddy turned vegan” over “The dining room has been invaded by a flock of Doxies” to “The entire house is about to explode”.

“Well, I know you wanted this to be a special get-together for you and Teddy but the thing is… they usually come over for lunch a few times a month, and Teddy really likes the company…”

“Oh, no problem!”, Harry interrupts her. He does not care whether there are other people around. In fact, he is a bit relieved that Teddy will not focus on him the entire time. “The more the merrier, no?”

“Well, I just wanted to let you know that it’s...”, Andromeda starts but she is interrupted by a now very obviously hungry Teddy.

“Nana! Harry! Where are you? Auntie says we can’t start until everybody is at the table!”

“Auntie?”, Harry is a little lost but Andromeda just sighs and opens the door to the dining room. 

And there he is again: Draco Malfoy, single raised eyebrow and all. He does not look surprised to see Harry. His nose is a bright pink and shiny. On him, the tell-tale signs of a cold look charming. It breaks through the hard outer facade of arrogance and gives him a hint of vulnerability.

“What are you doing here?”, Harry blurts out. He is incredcibly proud that he swallowed the “fuck” aching to leave his throat.

“You are late.”, Malfoy comments dryly. “And in contrast to you, mother and I are regular guests in this house.”

Harry blinks. He only now notices that someone is sitting in the chair behind Malfoy’s, too. He would have barely recognized “auntie” Narcissa Malfoy without her son next to her though. Of course, she is still the blonde, tall woman with the straight, thin nose but instead of her intimidating high-collared, emerald dress robes, she is now wearing a simple blouse with floral patterns, her hair falling loosely over her shoulders. It is the look on her face, however, that makes her look so very different. She is smiling openly at Teddy, her features are relaxed, her eyes soft. The expression could not be further removed from the tight-lipped aristocrat Harry remembers from school days. 

“Can you just sit down?”, Teddy whines. He already holds fork and knife in his hand. Andromeda casts a scolding look at him. “Pleeeeease?”, he adds.

Malfoy and Harry flinch simultaneously. For a fraction of a second, their eyes meet. Harry grins ever so slightly as the image of Malfoy on the frost-covered ground flickers in front of his inner eye. It is gone with a blink. 

Andromeda’s hand on his forearm reminds him that there is a starving 10-year old in the room who does not care much for daydreaming at the moment. Harry sighs deeply and grabs the only chair that is left empty. It faces Malfoy. He starts to question whether somebody jinxed him during his last assignment, whether he swallowed something like an anti-Felix-Felicis.

“Finally!”, Teddy sighs and reaches for a bowl of oven potatoes. 

“I hope you have arrived well in England, Harry.”, Narcissa says. She strikes a perfectly pleasant, neutral tone. Years of dinner party conversations are shining through.

Harry needs a moment to let the memory of his actual arrival pass before he manages a “I did, thank you.” Malfoy huffs, almost inaudibly, to his credit, as he puts brussels sprouts on his plate.

“Did you fly all the way?”, Teddy asks, his mouth full of vegetables. 

Harry chuckles. “No, buddy, that’s way too far. Gotta make it here in one piece, no?” Teddy looks a bit disappointed, so Harry adds: “There’s been a guy who made the trip on a broom in one go, though.” Harry pauses briefly. He remembers Janusz well, his stringy body, and his wicked smile. It was a brief relationship but an intense one. Janusz did not stay long in New York, too much concrete for his liking. “He almost lost his toes because he got a really bad frostbite.”

Teddy’s eyes grow round and wide.

“Well, I do think a portkey must have been a much more pleasant experience.”, Narcissa comments. “I hope they did not give you too much trouble at the station though. Draco always seems to get hold up at customs for the silliest reasons.”

There is an undertone of bitterness in Narcissa’s voice. It betrays her pearl white smile. Draco huffs again but not without darting a glance at Harry. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say trouble…”, Harry starts. Malfoy keeps looking at him. Harry has a sudden urge to make him flip out of his cool. He wonders why he always does, always has. “... it was pretty enjoyable in the end. Ow!”

Malfoy’s foot hits Harry’s shin with an uncanny precision.

“What’s the matter?”, Andromeda asks.

“Nothing, it’s fine.” Harry tries to avoid looking at Malfoy’s smug face. “Just pulled a muscle when I went running yesterday, I guess. I had a rather interesting encounter with a great dane.” Harry curls his legs under his chair, just in case.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. We should get you something for that. Don’t you have bitterroot balm at home? I’m sure Draco can give you some, you still make it yourself, isn’t that so?”

“I make my own version, yes.”, Draco confirms but does not offer anything else.

“Still a potion nerd, huh?”, Harry comments. He can vaguely imagine why Draco would want to home-brew a muscle-relaxing salve but even he would not dare to go down that route on a table with his godson. 

“Some people like to do something productive in their spare time.”, Draco hisses. “Though I imagine you must be far too busy to indulge in such a luxury, not even finding the time for a single vacation in all those years… it must be tough.”

The comment stings. Harry looks over to Teddy who has decided that the heaping plate in front of him is more interesting than the adults’ conversation. Harry wonders how the tiny body manages to burn away all this food. 

“I am sure Harry had his reasons.”, Andromeda interjects and Harry is grateful for it. “You are gone for weeks at a time sometimes, too, Draco. Remember that business trip to Chile?”

Harry catches sight of a flush of pink hushing over Malfoy’s cheeks for a fraction of a second. He doubts that the embarrassment is in any way related to business. Whatever that business might be. 

“Don’t you both think you could leave your school day rivalry behind?” Narcissa lays a hand on her son’s arm. “For Teddy?”, she adds softly.

A single ring sits on her index finger, and it bears the sigil of the house of Black. Harry cannot help noticing the tiny detail, undercover assignments have drummed the habit deep into his unconscious. 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. …”, Harry hesitates. He does not know how to address the woman that maybe is or maybe used to be Mrs. Malfoy.

“Narcissa is fine, Mr. Potter. Harry, if I may?”

“Harry is great - Narcissa.”

Malfoy leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. All coolness aside, he struggles to hide his anger, Harry muses. He likes the look of it on him, eyes turning dark blue under his furrowed brows, lips shut tight, jaws working. There is an energy around Malfoy when he works to contain his emotions, it is almost like sparks of magic. Harry knows that feeling. It has taken him years to control these primal magical energies. He still cringes when he thinks back at his first big break-up. It took him an entire day to restore the fire damage in his kitchen.

“You went to school together?”, Teddy asks. His plate is already empty and in-between a refill, the conversation has caught his attention. His eyes wander from Harry to Malfoy and back again. 

“We did. We were in the same year.”, Harry answers.

“But in different houses.”, Malfoy adds.

“Oh wow, I always thought Draco is much older than Harry.”, Teddy comments light-heartedly. Harry laughs. Andromeda throws an almost convincingly shocked “Teddy!” at her grandson but her smile denies her any credibility. Narcissa swallows a giggle. Only Malfoy is visibly annoyed and crosses his arms a little more firmly.

“How come?”, Harry asks, hoping to tease Malfoy a little more. Andromeda and Narcisse simultaneously cast a reproachful glance at him but neither interferes. 

“Well, Draco just seems so… grown-up?”, Teddy says, his mouth already full again.

Ouch, that backfired, Harry thinks. Malfoy grins at him, evidently reconciled with the situation. Maybe Narcissa is right: This is just like in old school days, somehow. Which does not deter either of the two however-much-grown-up men from squabbling on. Harry just loves wiping a smug grin from Malfoy’s face way too much.

“Ah, Malfoy, settling down already?” Harry is rather sure that this should hit a sore spot.

“If you mean focusing on a stable career, then yes.”, the other answers with a telling side-glance at his mother. 

“No, I was just curious whether there’s a new Mrs. Malfoy in sight.”, Harry probes further. It is his foot that wanders over to Malfoy’s, now. He knows that Malfoy has not been experimenting with him. And if he has - Harry would only be more convinced that a Mrs. Malfoy, even if there were one in sight, would not be there to stay.

“That’s none of your business.”, Malfoy snaps. Harry is delighted - Malfoy’s icy demeanour is slipping away bit by bit.

“Ah, but we’re as good as family! Don’t be so secretive. Anyone you’re dating?”

“Also none of your business.”

“So that’s a no.”

“That is a I-would-not-tell-you-even-if-there-were-someone.” Malfoy glares at him with tight lips, his eyes are blazing. Why does Harry like that view so much? “Or would you care to elaborate on your dating life?”

Harry hesitates for a moment. Backing down is not an option but his answer needs to be calibrated delicately.

“On a double-date, any time!”, he answers.

“I doubt that this would be an enjoyable experience for anyone involved.”

“Oh, I am sure you would be pleasantly surprised.” Harry grins widely as he moves his foot between Malfoy’s legs. He knows that this is a little, more than a little, mad. But he cannot help himself, seeing Malfoy’s eyes widen and his cheeks blush is just too alluring.

“Oh, it would be lovely if you two could have some fun together! Get over the old rivalries!”, Andromeda chimes in. Malfoy looks at her as if she just suggested he should take a dementor on his double-date with Harry.

“I don’t think so!”, he snaps.

“Why not?”, Teddy asks innocently. 

“I am afraid, Teddy, Draco and Harry have not gotten along very well in the past.”, Narcissa answers. She looks at him softly. “Remember when Dromeda and I told you about the time before the war?”

Teddy frowns deeply and replies with a slow “Yes.”

“It was similar between Draco and Harry. Only that they visited the same school, so instead of avoiding one another, they got into a lot of fights.”

“But you and Nana are like best friends now!”, Teddy adds. The entire story does not make a lot of sense to him. Arguments between adults never do. “So why can’t Harry and Draco be friends?”

The two men whose relationship is under debate remain silent. Neither Harry nor Malfoy know how to argue with a child like Teddy. 

“Of course they can.”, Andromeda says, smiling at Malfoy and Harry in turns, ignoring the shock on their faces. “They just… need a little time to get to know each other” Malfoy huffs and Harry suppresses a laugh. “under different circumstances.”, she adds.

Harry cannot hold the laugh back anymore. He can feel the energy around Malfoy crackle like magical static. Harry is intrigued and oddly turned-on. He does not know whether he is still upset about it. His leg is still wedged between Malfoy’s, and he uses the moment of general confusion to tap against Malfoy’s shin. Malfoy clenches his jaws together harder in response, Harry can see the muscles work, they stand out from the otherwise so delicately cut face. 

“I do think things might be very different - under different circumstances.”, he confirms. His voice is neutral but his eyes sparkle with amusement. His foot slides up on Malfoy’s calf. Sadly, they sit just a little too far apart to do much more.

“Outside, Potter.”, Malfoy says quietly with clenched teeth. “Now.”

Before Harry can reply, Malfoy has stood up and walked out of the room.

“Er…”, he starts, looking at Andromeda. “Sorry about that. I’d better…”

“You go, Harry.”, Andromeda says lightly. “We know how Draco can be. He will calm down before the desert is on the table.”

Harry leaves the room with a silent sigh. He likes Malfoy angry, he does not know about Malfoy as a diva. He has seen a good many of this kind: true individuals with a sense of pride that overwhelms a brittle layer of self-confidence, a layer that breaks all too easily, a layer that they defend fiercely. As soon as it cracks, though, all hell breaks loose. 

Malfoy is not in the hallway, so Harry tries another door at random but he does not get a chance to even notice which room he steps into. Instead, he finds himself pressed firmly against the wall, Malfoy’s face dangerously close to his. Malfoy is astonishingly strong, there is power in those stringy muscles, and he leverages all of the one inch he is taller than Harry. His lower arm pushes against Harry’s throat, forces chin up. 

“Salazar help you, Potter, if you dare to make a sound!”

Harry is not sure whether he could. Malfoy’s sudden attack has knocked the air out of his lungs. And he is not about to get much of it back.

“You’re a bloody bastard, you know that, don’t you?”

Harry cannot nod, so he grins as a response. Malfoy is still fuming with anger but something tells him that the nature of that anger has changed since he left the room. Or at least since he started pressing half of his body against Harry’s.

“What sick, twisted, perverse mind would stir a lunch conversation in this direction?”

Harry tries shrugging his shoulders but only succeeds in rubbing his upper back against the wall. There is nothing tentative, symbolic about Malfoy’s hold on him. It hurts and if he did want to move, he would need to force his way out. 

“What game are you playing?”

Malfoy’s face inches even closer to his. Harry can see the straight line that starts to inscribe itself between his brows, the few single hairs that have fought themselves free from the otherwise impeccable haircut, the almost colorless lashes that he remembers from yesterday. The wings of Malfoy’s narrow nose flutter with excitement. And Harry notices that smell again, internally growling. It makes him dizzy and focused at the same time, but focused solely and intensely at Malfoy alone. 

Harry licks his lips, shifts his weight, he is stalling and he knows it. He does not particularly enjoy his position - he would much rather have Malfoy pressed against the wall, his neck between his fingers, his body controlling the other’s range of movement - but then he also does enjoy this, at least his cock is telling him so quite unambiguously. Malfoy is awfully close, just an inch separates their bodies, and Harry curses every fraction of it, because most of his semi-conscious thought is obsessed with finding a strategy for how to bridge these godforsaken centimeters so he can feel the muscles that are holding him in place under his fingertips.

“What”, Malfoy continues. “Do you think you are doing?”

Harry laughs softly. As if thinking had played any role in what he has been doing around Malfoy these days.

“Are you making fun of me?”, Malfoy spits and now his mouth is so close to Harry’s, he can almost feel it on his. 

“I would never”, Harry whispers in reply. “I just wanted to have a bit of fun with you.”

“So this is your idea of fun?”, Malfoy lets his forearm sink only to replace it with his hand immediately. He has Harry’s throat in a firm grip, thumb and index finger digging into the soft creases next to his windpipe. It sends a wave of pleasure and pain, the most addictive mix, through his veins. He cannot breathe and he cannot move and so he is reduced to feeling the pain in his back and at his throat, to looking at Malfoy’s blazing eyes and breathing in his perfume. And then Malfoy wiggles his fingers ever so slightly and his fingernails are digging into the skin of Harry’s neck and he groans. His neck is sensitive, ridiculously so, and Malfoy has the most annoying knack for exploiting that weakness.

“Yes.”, Harry finally breathes. His eyelids feel heavy. He wants to give in, now. He is done talking back to Malfoy as of a second ago, at least for the next few minutes. It has been years since he has felt the urge to submit like this but right in this moment, he wants to let go and let Malfoy take the control he has seized with such force and run with it, use it, abuse it for all he cares.

“Kinky, aren’t we, Potter?”, Draco chuckles and loosens his grip for a moment, grants Harry one proper breath, then immediately tightens it again. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Judging others by your own standards?”, Harry manages to squeeze out. His hands reach for Malfoy’s hips, he cannot bear the distance between their bodies anymore, not when the rest of the situation is so insanely intimate. Malfoy got into his head, got his hand around his throat, now he can fucking well also get the other under his shirt and into his pants. 

But Malfoy slaps his hand away. The blow is sharp. Harry feels a sting of disappointment and rejection. It only lasts for the blink of an eye. And then Mafloy’s torso is pressed flush against his own, hard cock against his hips.

“Only when appropriate”, Malfoy whispers into his ear, his face now next to Harry’s. It reminds him oddly of yesterday and how much he has enjoyed teasing Malfoy. He should have known the episode would come back to haunt him. Only he thought it would limit its intrusions to desperate daydreaming episodes.

“You are getting off on this, aren’t you, Potter?”, Malfoy thrusts his nails into Harry’s neck and earns a whining moan in response. “Half-strangled, shoved against the wall, unable to move, barely able to breathe, losing control with every shaky inhale. You want that, don’t you? Someone who shows you your proper place, someone who takes off the kid gloves and slaps you in the face - hard.”

Harry cannot nod, just let out a stifled moan and closes his eyes. Yes, he thinks, and no, and he cannot decide which one is true. Yes, he wants all of that and so much more and yes he wants it now and fuck the fact that they are just two walls between them and a mother, grandmother, and child. No because it is impossible that he wants this from Malfoy because he wants this from Malfoy  _ specifically _ because it turns him on more than anything before.

“So now, tell me, Potter”, Malfoy continues as he lets his hips roll against Harry’s body. “Why should I do you the favor of giving you what you want?”

“Because”, Harry starts and meets the other’s movement with his own as much as he can, pressing his groin against him, seeking friction, seeking heat. “It’s what you want. Because you fucking like it just as much as I do.” Harry’s throat hurts with every word, but he continues. “If not more.”

Malfoy backs off a litte, just enough to look Harry in the eyes. The stare is intense, searching. “What the fuck are you doing to me, you little bitch.”, he whispers. For a moment, Harry thinks Malfoy is about to kiss him, and the thought shocks him, more than anything else they have already done to one another. He can almost feel the sharp lips on his own, soft and just wet enough, warm.

But then the moment is gone and instead of a gentle kiss, he feels a sharp bite at the base of his neck and a hand on his cock and that is when the last of thinking stops, leaving his mind in a nirvana of want.

Malfoy’s hand curls around his erection forcefully and Harry leans into it, even though the grip almost hurts. Just like he opens his neck for Malfoy, for his teeth that have sunk deep into his skin, just about to draw blood, not quite yet, though Harry wished they would. There is something about being with Malfoy that drives him wild. It’s a total lack of worry. The absence of any need for concern. If he wants to hurt him, he really does, if he wants to insult him, he genuinely means it. That Malfoy enjoys it, well, it makes things better for both sides. 

“Circe Potter, I don’t know whether I want to hurt you for my amusement or yours anymore.”, Malfoy mutters when his mouth does leave Harry’s throat eventually. “What do you figure, little pervert?”

“Yours, you sadistic prick.”, Harry answers and the spite in his voice has the only one purpose to let Malfoy lose the little rest of control left in him, the tiny bit that keeps him from ripping Harry’s shirt apart and pants down. At least that is what Harry imagines, wants his words to do.

Malfoy answers with a wolfish grin. He does look as if he is about to devour his prey and Harry gladly accepts that role for now, offers himself up for it. He throws his head back against the wall, moaning. Malfoy answers the sound with a growl of his own, presses his hips against Harry’s, they are desperate for every inch of skin touching skin, for any bit of friction against their groins, anything that keeps the heat between them trapped and rising. 

“Fuck.”, Harry moans. “Fuck, Mafloy if you don’t…”

“What?”

Malfoy’s breath brushes against Harry’s ear. It makes him shiver.

“If you don’t get on with it…”

“What?”

“Jeez, Malfoy”, Harry scrambles to form a sentence. “Just.. ah.” Fails. He just keeps pressing himself against Malfoy’s body and hands, keeps searching for something that satisfies his want.

“I’ll be nice to you, Potter.”, Malfoy offers. “This time.”

Harry tries to chuckle but the attempt merely ends in another stifled groan. He can feel Malfoy’s dick through two layers of pants, hard and pulsing, and he just wants those layers gone, feel the skin they are hiding.

“This time”, Malfoy continues. “I will not even make you beg.”

“How generous”, Harry comments, licking his lips in anticipation.

“I will give you what you want.” Malfoy’s hand slides into Harry’s pants, wraps around his prick without hesitation. 

Harry gasps. A wave of pleasure washes over him, he feels like he might just about drown in it. He thinks he is about to come, so unexpected and intense is the feeling. But then Malfoy’s hand is gone as suddenly as it appeared.

“But…”, Malfoy chuckles. “You need to tell me. In detail.”

Harry swallows hard. His body knows exactly what he wants but his brain refuses to put these desires into words.

“Kneazle got your tongue again, huh?”, Malfoy teases.

“Fuck, Malfoy, touch me!”

“Like this?” Malfoy lets his hand slide lightly over Harry’s stomach.

“Jee, Malfoy…”

“Yes”, Malfoy chuckles, bright teeth flashing a satisfied grin at Harry. “That’s my name.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, not today.”

And tomorrow? Tracey’s voice is back in Harry’s head, loud and horny. He groans. The suggestion does not sound half bad. But he is too caught up in feeling Malfoy’s prick pressing against his own at this moment, he wants release now, wants to satisfy the aching arousal - instantly. A quick and dirty handjob will need to do. If Malfoy would only get on with it.

“Come on, you fucking asshole.”, Harry snarls, his voice hoarse. 

“Oh, I would very much like to come.”, Malfoy replies, his breath is hot on Harry’s skin. “And I bet you would, too, wouldn’t you?”

Harry’s yes is a deformed moan.

“Tell me”, Malfoy probes further. His lips brush over Harry’s earlobe. “What” His tongue follows. “You” His lips settle on the cruelly sensitive spot on Harry’s neck- again. “Want”

Harry breathes in sharply, his eyes shut firmly. “I want you to put your hand back in my pants and around my cock”, he manages in a strained voice. And this breaks a dam. “I want you to take it in a firm grip and wank it as if it was your own. I want you to pump my cock and leave your fucking mouth right where it is and bite that exact spot while you get me off.”

Harry’s head is spinning as the words just tumble from his mouth and Malfoy’s hand and mouth obey his orders. His knees feel like they are about to buckle in, his thighs are shaking, and he just leaves it as that. He lets himself be held upright by the weight of Malfoy’s body against his, lets himself fall, lets go of it all. And just like that, he lets his orgasm wash over him, fast and violently.

“Fuck.”, is all he can say - and, frankly, think. Malfoy lets go of his throat, and Harry sinks against his shoulder for a moment. “You’re nuts.”

“Say you.”, Malfoy comments dryly and shoves Harry away. “I consider this my fair revenge.”

Harry’s legs feel wobbly but they carry him, again. He gives Malfoy a puzzled look. 

“For yesterday”, Malfoy adds, and busies himself by straightening the collar of his button-down. “It seemed like you remembered rather well a few minutes ago.”

“Huh.” Harry’s brain is still on a happy post-coital hormone trip. He does not really care for the reason of Malfoy’s sudden dom-style debauchery, not yet. 

“You might consider hiding or healing these marks.”, Malfoy comments. His hand is at the door knob. “Teddy might just about believe a made-up reason for them but the Black sisters will certainly not be fooled.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! I almost left it at a cliff hanger but then... Harry really deserved this.
> 
> And now - unto chapter 4! I want to catch up and write a bit for the week during the weekend. Comments might keep the good resolutions alive ;)


	4. December 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Ron has some delicate questions, Hermione’s taste is too close to Malfoy’s, and restrooms are dangerous places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catching up on the days! This one is almost tame... all else considered. But I promise, it will get worse. Have yourself a little laugh.

Harry starts to wonder whether someone smuggled some sort of Malfoy magnet under his skin. Yesterday’s lunch was one of the most surreal events in his life - nevermind saving the world from a super-villain - and perhaps, but only perhaps, topped by the two preceding days. But today’s plan is guaranteed to be Malfoy-free. He knows it. There is no way in hell that Malfoy will turn up on Ron’s and Hermione’s doorstep. 

He feels a bit wary about meeting with the now married couple. He has not entirely lost touch with them, they are bound together by their past, but he cannot imagine what their life must look like by now. It seems so far removed from his own. They have a little daughter, jobs that do not involve risking their lives, a house in the suburbs, and a regularly scheduled “date night” which they mostly spend at the cinema or a nice restaurant. Harry has a stray cat, a rambunctious trio of friends and an odd collection of lovers, more scars from his job assignments than he can count, an apartment in Brooklyn, and a calendar for keeping track of play parties. He feels like he missed a turn on the path to adulthood when he talks to them. 

The fire in his fireplace turns into the tell-tale frog green that announces a floo call.

“Harry, Harry are you home?”, Hermione’s voice comes through. “No, Victoire, not now, Mommy needs to talk to uncle Harry. Sorry about that.”

Now Hermione’s head also pops into view, her hair in even more of a disarray than usual. There is an unidentifiable green stain on her cheek. Harry smiles. It is oddly comforting to see signs of chaos on Mrs. Organized, and apart from the little messiness, she looks positively blooming.

“No worries, ‘Mione. What’s the matter?”

“So, about tonight. I know it sounded like a great idea to have dinner at ours with you getting to see Victoire and everything but…”, she pauses. “Honestly, I think I need a break. And so Ron and I were thinking we could meet at our favorite restaurant instead?”

It is oddly touching how defensive Hermione is about the proposal.

“Sure, why not?”, Harry replies immediately. “Give me the address and I’ll be there.”

  
  


_ Le petit prince _ is a small restaurant at the heart of Diagon Alley, wedged between a bakery and a florist. Hermione and Ron are already seated at a table in a small alcove surrounded by enchanted windows that seem to overlook a meadow glowing in the early-evening sun. It looks homey and welcoming, nevermind that it has already been dark outside for hours. 

Before Harry can even start saying hello, he is caught up in a group hug, Ron at his right and Hermione at his left, both squeezing him so tightly that he would have been knocked off his feet if he were not wedged between them.

“It’s good to see you, man! I mean, to see you for real!”

“You look well, Harry.”

“Er… thanks. You too. Both of you.”

It takes the polite cough of the waiter to end the welcome hug. Ron and Hermione take their chairs, leaving the bench overlooking the inside of the restaurant to Harry. He meant it when he said that the two of them looked well, even though Hermione has bags under her eyes and Ron’s visit at the barber is long overdue. They are holding hands like a kindergarten couple. 

“So, tell us everything!”, Hermione demands. “You have been awfully brief on the floo this year!”

“Everything, huh? That’s kind of a broad topic, Hermione.” Harry scratches his head. “Work is alright. They’ve promoted me in July, made a bit of a fuss about it, announcing it right before the 4th, so the long weekend was really intense…”

“Oh, congratulations!”, Hermione exclaims. 

“Intense weekend, ey? Ah, a Bachelor’s life…”, Ron winks at him. 

Harry blushes and waves the comment away. He buries his nose in the menu and hopes that the topic will quietly slip under the table. “So, anything you’d recommend?”

“Don’t let Ron tease you.”, Hermione says. “It’s perfectly fine that you enjoy being single. In fact, it’s probably a good idea to take these things slowly. The duck is great, by the way.”

“Ah, come on, don’t tell me you’ve been takin’ it slow for the last ten years, mate. There must have been someone. You’re always sort of… avoiding the topic though.”, Ron throws in. “I’ll go with the steak - best fries as a side you’ll ever have in a place like this, I swear.”

“Any thoughts on the trout?”

“You are avoiding the topic, Harry James Potter!” Hermione glares at him sharply. Harry wonders when she will finally get the glasses to go with the expression, if only to pull them down and glance over their rim. He sighs.

“It’s complicated.”, he answers truthfully.

“How complicated can it be?”, Ron asks, putting his menu aside. “Is there a girl you like or no?”

Harry wants to bang his head on the table - or Ron’s. “Errr… it’s actually a bit more complicated than that, Ron.”

Ron’s eyes widen as he leans towards Harry. “Mate, are you…”

Harry briefly considers his options. It is a shame that they have not even had the chance to order drinks. He could use a little liquid courage. It has been easy to avoid talking about relationships when he wrote to them or when they talked on the floo. But he cannot pretend that there is someone at the door or an owl at the window requiring his attention, now.

“It’s complicated.”, Harry reiterates and hopes that Ron will let him be if he just stalls the conversation until the waiter arrives. He quickly scans the room for the young man who brought him to the table but cannot find him - not at the table with the party of elderly witches with ridiculously tall hats, not at the corner table occupied by a couple on what looks like an awkward first date, not at the table next to theirs with two business men. “Do you know what you want? We should maybe call the waiter…”

“Wait a sec - what do you mean: complicated?” Ron wrinkles his nose, a sign of deep confusion. 

Hermione lays a hand on Ron’s arm. The gesture looks well-practiced. “How are Tracey and Zach and… Jal?”

“Yael.”, Harry corrects. He is a bit surprised to hear Hermione stumble over the name. He really has not been in touch much, lately. “They’re great. Tracey is having a bit of a Christmas-season breakdown but that’s quite alright, we think it’s the overdose of sugar” and other substances, he quietly notes. “from Halloween and Thanksgiving wearing off. Yael is freezing all the time but she’s gotten better at warming charms. And Zach drags the whole bunch ice skating every weekend. The girls hate it but he bribes them with his specialty hot chocolate.” Which is heavily based on Odgen’s finest and usually leaves them too tipsy for serious ice-skating, but Harry does not dare to add that bit of information.

Ron remains suspiciously silent while Harry and Hermione continue chattering about the holiday season in the US and the UK. They order food and wine for Harry and Hermione, Ron favors the Belgian beer. It all seems to come together rather nicely, Harry thinks. He is about to ask how Victoire is getting along in kindergarten when Ron stirs the conversation back to where he left it.

“Harry, mate, I swear I’d not keep asking, but…” he grabs his beer glass, as if he anticipates the urgent need for a drink. “... the guys at the store sort of told me some sick stories about New York. You know, Bobby from international shipping, and Lloyd from marketing…”

“Oh, Ronald. It’s just stories!”

“What stories?”, Harry asks. When he first moved to New York, people told him a lot of stories, too, and at the time they sounded scandalous, like some made-up essays for boulevard magazines. Girls dancing on the countertop of bars for a shot, people wearing nothing but body paint on the subway, stories like that. The truth turned out to be even more ludicrous than the storytellers imagined.

“Look, I know it’s just hearsay…”, Ron mumbles into his beer glass.

“Exactly!”, Hermione nods.

“But… c’mon, ‘Mione. Don’t tell me you don’t wanna know…”

“Jesus, Ron, how bad can it be?”, Harry sighs. He does not feel good about the direction this conversation is going in and he can imagine quite a few bits of information about his life in New York that could count as fatally nasty in his old friend’s eyes, depending on how protective they were of their heteronomrative world view.

“Excuse me, I have the steak for…?”, the waiter interrupts. 

Harry collapses against the backrest of his bench. Saved by the main course. Even though, he muses over the first bite of salmon, he cannot continue telling white lies to Ron and Hermione. It does not seem fair. They used to be as close as siblings. And Harry wants to preserve that relationship. He sighs silently. Preservation is the crucial point - he has withdrawn from Ron and Hermione more and more because he wanted to keep their relationship the same all the while his life, he, was changing. 

“I guess I haven’t told you much about what’s really been going on.”, Harry says finally. His plate is already empty, the others are still eating. He hopes that the food will keep Ron and Hermione from asking follow-up questions. It is a silly strategy but one can only hope. 

“New York, Brooklyn, it’s a bit different. I mean, not compared to London. But compared to Hogwarts…” He pauses, does not know where to begin. “So, yeah, I’ve been dating. Several people. Some women. Some men.” Ron lets his cutlery drop just a little too suddenly on his plate. “Some people who just want to be people. And I’ve had some really meaningful relationships, still do. But I don’t like to put a label on them. So sometimes I’m seeing a few people at a time and sometimes no one in particular, and there are some friends in my life that I sleep with sometimes. And I know I should’ve probably told you about some of that but then… well, I guess it’s just a bit much to explain, sometimes. But if you want to know, really, I’ll catch you up. Promise.”

“That’s a lot of information, man.”, Ron mutters. His face is about the color of his hair, and his nose is buried deep in the beer glass.

And that’s not even half, Harry sighs internally. “So if there were stories about me sleeping around, Ron, it’s not totally wrong - from the outside - but…”

“Nonono, forget about it.”, Ron stutters. Harry swears his face turned yet another shade of red darker. 

“Alright, now  _ I’m  _ curious.”, he says. Not that he kept things a secret back at his new home but he does want to know what particular bit of information has made it across the ocean.

“So the guys, I’m sure they were just tryin’ to make stuff up…” Harry and Hermione simultaneously raise their eyebrows. “Alright, alright. They said that Harry had quite the reputation.” Ron chokes on his own words but Harry’s and Hermione’s joint stares urge him on. “That he’s going to parties in drag. That he’s doing striptease. That… I don’t know, all sorts of stuff like that.” Harry wants to laugh out loud but Ron is not quite done yet. “They were talking about private s… sex parties.”

Hermione’s face is perfectly still even though a shade paler than a moment ago. 

“And where would they get this… kind of information from?”, she snaps.

Harry, against his own better judgment, smiles. Oddly, he feels like a heavy weight has been taken from his chest. 

“‘Dunno.”, Ron mutters. “Said something about blowin’ off some steam on their trip, meetin’ some people…”

“What did you say their names were?”, Harry asks. He vaguely remembers having met some British wizards not too long ago. Not that they necessarily would have used their names or he would have remembered them. But if he asks the question, he does not need to comment on the veracity of the stories Ron heard. But Hermione is not so easily distracted.

“So it’s true?”, she asks. Her fingers are twirling a lock of hair, a nervous tick. 

“I guess…”, Harry starts and does not know where to take the sentence. “I mean, I wouldn’t call heels and a pair of thighs drag - like, that’s a whole other level. I don’t have the patience for the make-up, or the skills. Yael would need to do it for me but she says I’ll sweat if off anyway…”

“So it’s true.”, Hermione repeats. Her index finger starts to turn blue, she has wrapped it too tightly in a strand of hair. “Well, that is quite the surprise. Not that we would judge you, Harry, of course not. I’m sure you… you have your reasons.”

Harry blinks. He does not know what he had expected from them. A scene? No, Hermione has reacted just the way Hermione does under any circumstances: matter-of-factly, calmly. Ron’s face has turned from crimson to a slightly greener shade, he seems overwhelmed by the situation. Harry feels sorry for him. 

“Well… erm, I’ll just go to the restroom real quick, yeah?”, he offers. Maybe Ron just needs a little time to digest. And order something stronger than an ale.

Harry looks at his face in the mirror over the restroom sink. He wonders whether it looks very different from the boy’s who was Ron’s and Hermione’s best friend back in the day. With the glasses gone and the scar covered by strands of black hair, the square chin and the three-day stubble on it, there is not much left that resembles the boy-who-lived . 

“High heels and tights, huh?”

Harry freezes. 

“I’d rather fancy seeing that.”

He turns around and hopes that his ears are playing tricks on him.

“Muffliato is not part of the standard MACUSA repertoire, I gather?”, Malfoy continues as he stands next to Harry. He starts washing his hands.

“Are you stalking me?”, Harry exclaims. 

“That”, Malfoy responds while he casts a drying spell on his hands. “Is what I should be asking you. This is  _ my _ favorite restaurant after all.”

And Hermione’s, Harry groans internally. 

“A rather interesting little coming out you had there, Potter.”, Malfoy continues. He leans against the tiled wall, arms crossed over a spotless white button-down and a dark silk tie. Even though he does not wear a suit jacket, he looks like a proper business man - one of the two sitting at the other table. 

“I am glad you enjoyed it.”, Harry says. He meant it as some last words before leaving but his eyes remain glued on Malfoy. There is something about that wicked grin, that glittering in his eyes, about the way he exposes his long, pale neck when he tilts his head which just so invitingly leads the eye to the sharp edges of his broad shoulders, too broad almost for the narrow hips that are clad in a pair of of dress pants that are cut right to the edge between appropriately and suggestively tight. Harry swallows.

“And you are enjoying the view?”, Malfoy probes. Restrooms are dangerous places, Tracey’s voice coos in Harry’s head. 

“I’ve seen worse.”, Harry tries to counter but he knows that he is about to start drooling. He has a thing for men in suits, for the power they can radiate. 

“What a charmer.”, Malfoy replies. “Are you distributing your compliments so freely to all your lovers? Or is this the Great Britain special?”

“Oh, it’s the special for guys who follow me to the restroom.”, Harry counters even though that is not true. He has a different kind of special for those kind of guys if they happen to tickle his fancy. 

“Hm. I’d have expected something more from you in that department.” 

Malfoy’s eyes are fixed on Harry’s mouth. He does not state the obvious but Harry knows what he is thinking about. He can practically see the episode at customs on replay behind Malfoy’s forehead. Actually, he can see it in front of his own inner eye. The memory is far too fresh, too vivid. He can almost taste Malfoy’s cum in his mouth again. A shiver runs down his spine. He holds onto the sink, steadying himself because the image of Malfoy coming undone in front of him transforms his legs into an unstable mess. Malfoy looks way too smug, leaning against the wall for his taste.

“Knut for your dirty thoughts, Potter.”

“A galleon, minimum, Malfoy.”

“Fine.” Malfoy’s grin widens as he pushes off the wall. “I’ll even give you a better deal: a bottle of Gran Reserva from my favorite vineyard, one of only a thousand a year.”

Harry bites his lip. He does not care much for the wine. But he does care about Malfoy not walking out of here with his smug grin intact. Turning down the offer or walking away from it will not do that. 

“Fine, Malfoy, if you must know” Harry takes a small step towards Malfoy. There is a spark of danger between them. “I was thinking about Tuesday morning when your arrogant visage did not look half so smug. When you were so desperate it was almost cute. I was thinking about Wednesday when you were begging me so very nicely…”

Harry can see the corners of Malfoy’s twitch and his Adam’s apple vibrate. His eyes have widened ever so slightly, they are fixating his lips. It is Harry’s time to grin.

“I was thinking about how pretty you can say ‘please’, how much you hate it though…” Harry savors the moment for a second. “... and how much you like it at the same time. How you enjoyed being my playtoy.”

“I think you are talking about yourself yesterday, here.”, Malfoy counters somewhere in between sulky and flirtatious.

“So what?”, Harry snaps. “I like to think of myself as being versatile.”

“That much I gathered.” Malfoy raises an eyebrow at Harry. “High heels and tights, if I recall correctly? Quite the contrast to Auror robes. Or to whatever it is you call what you wear these days.”

“Shut up, Malfoy. I didn’t ask for your styling advice.”

“Eh, you could use it.”

“So far my jeans haven’t kept you from getting your hands in them.”

“They should have.”

“Seriously?” Harry looks down at his best pair of jeans, the ones without worn-out hems or holes in them. They are freshly washed, too. Nothing wrong with them, in his opinion. “You only thought it’d be a bad idea to almost fuck  _ me _ of all people because of my  _ pants _ ?”

There is a brief silence. Then Harry hears himself laugh and he catches Malfoy suppressing a giggle, but the corners of his mouth only twitch upwards for a second.

“Of course not - even though they aggravate the situation considerably.”

“But high heels and tights would be acceptable?”

“Certainly more flattering on your arse, if you ask me.”

He is so right, Tracey’s voice pipes up, and Harry is starting to question his sanity for the hundredth time this week. Or rather, he knows that he has lost it, the question is whether the voice in his head or his sudden obsession with Malfoy are more worrisome. 

“Well, unlikely you’ll ever find out, Malfoy. Unless you want to deliver that bottle of wine to Forever Forsaken in Brooklyn.”

“Oh, we do ship internationally.” 

Malfoy directly looks him in the eyes. They are bright and silver, no trace of the darker blue that Harry remembers from the moments when they were flooded with lust. They twinkle with mischief. If he has learned one thing by now, it is that Malfoy is a teaser. 

  
  


Hermione wears a worried look on her face when Harry returns to the table. He tries to guess how long the episode with Malfoy had lasted. Five minutes? Surely nothing he cannot blame on indigestion.

“Are you alright?”, she asks.

“Yeah, just a little… y’know. Stomach might be a bit upset from Kreacher’s cooking.”, he answers and hopes that his C-minus in cover-up tactics will get him through the situation. “I’m feeling much better already, though.”

“Well, that’s not why I’m asking, actually.”, she continues. Ron silently raises a glass of whiskey to his lips. “I saw Malfoy coming from the toilets…”

“Oh.”

“And so I was wondering whether… you know, ran into him?”

Harry can feel the heat rising to his cheeks. He hopes that the fading summer tan hides it. “Yeah, for a sec.”

Hermione musters him intently. Ron stares out of the window, apparently determined not to tread on shaky ground anymore this evening.

“Desert?”, Harry asks. He prays to the founders that it will be at least a little less awkward than the one at Tonks house.

“I’ll have the chocolate cake!”, Ron throws in immediately. “And the fudge!”

They laugh. Some things, Harry thinks, luckily never change. 

Then his gaze flicks across the back of Malfoy’s head at the other table. And some things change a lot, Tracey’s voice trills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, wish me luck, and onto the next chapter. The wine glass is full and the evening is long ;)  
> Tough questions need answering, though: Will Harry ever get his bottle of wine? And did he pack any of these heels? Oh, I am tempted to make those appear, soon...


	5. December 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where London seems far too blonde, smoker’s corners are a dangerous place, and old (and new) habits die hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm still one day behind! People... I promise: it is for good reason. I had not planned on the end of this chapter. I swear. But then things just got so... dirty. And I could not help myself. So be warned: something steamy lies ahead.

When he wakes up, Harry declares the London metropolitan area as Malfoy-danger zone. To hell with it, why not the entirety of England? He is not sure whether he would be safe in Wales or Scotland either, though. The only solution to his dilemma: staying at home. At least for one day because he needs a break. He cannot deal with another crazy semi-sex episode with his former arch enemy, not within the next twenty-four hours. And even though they were at least able to hold back in the Petit Prince’s restrooms, he has completely lost faith in his ability to repeat that feat. His dreams had been filled with alternate versions of that encounter and only in one of them did he not lose the jeans that Malfoy declared so horribly inadequate.

But now he is awake and Harry is determined to scratch Malfoy at least from his waking life and thoughts. He has checked all wards on the house, most still from war times, reinforced the ones that looked a little shaky. He has even barricaded the fireplace, just in case. He has told Ron, Hermione, and Andromeda that he has caught a cold and recuperates in bed for the day. He has instructed Kreacher to not let anybody into the house, under no circumstances, and not to leave it, either. For a moment, he even considered physically barricading the windows but said windows did not seem to appreciate the idea and started opening themselves at random, leaving the dining room at the temperature of a freezer, and so Harry gave up. Grimmauld Place has a mind of his own. He consoles himself with the thought that the darkness would have made the place look even more like a dungeon that it already does.

And here we go again, Harry sighs. Dungeons is a dangerous key word. Dungeons, like the home of all Slytherins, including a certain blond exemplar. Dungeons, like the secret studios hidden throughout Brooklyn, where hard points line the ceilings and leather benches the walls. The combination of both - he forbids himself to think about it. But the picture of Malfoy stretched onto a cross, wrists bound, mouth gagged, oh, he would like that. He would like that opportunity to feast on the sight of a properly subordinated Malfoy, to let his fingers wander over the smooth skin, leave a mark here or there. He wonders what sounds Malfoy makes when he hurts, in a good way, whether he is a screamer or the silent type, whether he waits until the very last moment or shares the impact of every blow, every scratch. Mother Morgana, he has lost. He is not safe from this curse, not even in his own house.

Harry tries to distract himself. He picks up a book and lets his eyes slide over the lines mechanically. The individual words make sense but he has no idea what the sentences mean. He strolls to the kitchen, opens the fridge, notices that he is not hungry. He takes out a beer and glances at the clock. It is two in the afternoon. He shrugs. It is eight on the East coast, so technically, it is already evening. After all, Kreacher has gone through the trouble of stocking up on his favorite brew, a dark stout, and he should acknowledge that. 

The first sips do help him relax a little. He takes a walk through Grimmauld Place, taking stock of the manor he never wanted and yet cannot give away. He pauses in front of the family tree. The portrait of Narcissa smiles down on him, and Harry really does feel like she looks at him specifically. He still does not quite understand what happened to her, or her husband, after the war. He had not dared to ask either her or her sister how and when the big family reunion of the Blacks had taken place. He can only guess that it has something to do with Lucius Malfoy disappearing from the scene and Teddy’s boundless adoration for his aunt - perhaps aided by the sweets he saw Narcissa sneak into his hands when Andormeda disappeared into the kitchen.

Merlin knows, it had been a weird second act with that family lunch. Malfoy had ignored him completely, Teddy had been preoccupied with desert, which had all been fine with Harry. But Andromeda and Narcissa had exchanged so many looks, it made Harry question the potency of his healing charms which were, for better or worse, damn well practiced, particularly in the department of love bites. And if he was being honest, the fact that Malfoy had the nerve to completely ignore everything that preceded coffee and pudding knawed at him. 

Still does, his inner Tracey comments. 

Harry groans. He wonders whether Tracey managed to jinx him before his departure. He should come up with a plan for revenge. Maybe dump her secret stash of cigarettes at work. Though that would make everybody suffer. Hide her high heel collection? He smiles a little. Thinking about his friends in New York makes him a little homesick. It is Saturday, and he wonders where the trio will be off to without him. 

He looks at the draperies that line the living room, moth-bites adorning scenes from the first wizarding war. He sighs and asks himself whether this is how he will spend all his weekends this December. The portraits have not made for particularly good company, most of the frames are empty and he suspects that the ones that are not have simply not woken up to do so. It will be very quiet evenings, Harry thinks.

His mental Tracey-Doppelgaenger has different ideas. And for once, Harry likes them.

  
  


The deep base strokes Harry’s nerves like only a longtime lover can. The music is loud and decidedly danceable, the beats send vibrations through his bones. He feels more at home in the tiny, packed club than he ever has at Grimmauld Place. It is about as rundown as the old mansion, though, the black paint on the walls is cracked and covered in doodles and half-removed stickers. The dance floor has the distinct, sticky grip of linoleum that has not been cleaned in ages. Harry loves it all.

He lets his body move freely to the music, grazing the other bodies that are packed in the same space occasionally, making polite excuses here and there, though he quickly learns that consent for touching does not seem to be a particularly treasured concept, here. He does not mind very much tonight. It is just a night club, after all, neither obviously gay nor kinky, even though one piece of leather or two have caught his eye, and there is definitely more than one glitter-infested corner. Overall, he is happy with his choice. It came with recommendations from Zach who, amongst the four of them, is the only one who truly judges the DJ by their set and not their looks. 

When the lights turn brighter for a mellower section of the music, Harry lets his eyes wander over the crowd. He has not decided yet whether he wants to look for someone to spend the night with or just dance it away and drop into bed with aching feet. A woman in a crop top and plaid mini skirt catches his attention for a while, she is lost in the music, her slim body moves in expansive waves, and Harry likes the look of abandon on her face. She is gorgeous - tall and blonde. Strikingly, platinum blonde. Harry turns the other way. Tall and blonde sounds like a recipe for disaster.

He grits his teeth and leaves the dance floor. The brunette bar keeper seems like a much safer bet than the far too numerous pale-skinned Brits who, all of a sudden, seem to have far too many Malfoy-like traits about them. Why is every second person here blue-eyed and blond? And when has Britain gone on such an effective diet?

Harry orders a gin tonic and nearly coughs out his first sip. It is three times stronger than what they serve in the states. The barkeeper chuckles and leans towards him.

“Haven’t been here before, darling?”

“Nah.”, Harry shouts back. “Are you always so generous with the gin?”

“Only if there’s a need for it, pretty.”

“So I look like I need to get drunk?”

“You, darling, look like you need to get laid.”

Harry says nothing and takes another sip, more carefully this time. “How come?”

“Love, you’ve practically undressed half the dance floor with your eyes before you came to me.”, the barkeeper responds, waving vaguely into the direction of the blonde girl. “And shamefully neglected yours truly.”

Harry smiles and looks the guy over. He is the tattooed kind of dark and handsome, not very tall, a bit of a punk. He would not say no to him but he has a feeling they would have more fun racing against another across trails or the Quidditch field than undressing each other.

“No offense taken.”, the barkeeper continues. “But I will take offense if you leave my bar another lonesome stranger.”

Harry smirks and lets the ice in his glass clink. “How dare I?”

“Exactly! Now, chin up, shirt open, and stop talking to the barkeeper!”, the man himself orders and scurries off to the other end of the bar.

Harry sighs and looks down at his shirt front. He opens the second button, the third. The barkeeper throws an approving wink in his direction. Then he points to another man at the opposite end of the bar where the lights are dim. Harry cannot make out more than a silhouette leaning against the counter. “Go for it”, the barkeeper mouths silently, pointing his finger repeatedly at the vague shadow.

Harry shrugs and decides on a whim that it would be rude to ignore the hand that fed him so generously with gin.

  
  


Another three pours from the caring barkeep and another set of buttons undone further into the evening, Harry has gotten to know the mysterious shadow from the other end of the bar much better than he had thought he would care for. Jordan is mercifully dark-haired, as witty as one can be with the music censoring every other word, and Harry has become rather obsessed with the question whether his fingers are as nimble as their appearance suggests. For the moment being, he satisfies himself with exploring the rest of his body on the dance floor, letting his hands wander over chest, thighs, and an ass that deserves more than a mention in passing. Jordan is muscled in the right places, Harry can feel the abs move below his fingers, and where he can sneak his hands below the fabric of his shirt, Jordan’s skin is warm and elastic, the hair on his arms is soft.

They move well together, it is an elaborate foreplay that flows with the rhythm of the music. The dance floor is hot and packed with sweating bodies, it smells like a potpourri of deodorant, musk, and liquor. Harry’s head swims in happy dizziness, it feels oddly light and fluffy. Mayheps, he thinks, Jordan might be just the right medicine against this Mafloy-infection. He looks at him with liquor-dazed eyes and Jordan responds with a shamelessly naughty grin. Harry likes his attitude.

“Out of here?”, Jordan breathes into his ear, and Harry chuckles.

“Where to?”, he asks in return. 

“Let’s have a fag and see.”, Jordan replies, already dragging Harry towards the side door.

The icy night air hits Harry unexpectedly, a sharp wind blows through his open shirt and makes his nipples stand immediately. The asphalt on the sidewalk glitters with frost where abandoned cigarette butts have not melted it. Jordan drags him to a small, crowded corner on the left where a bulky bouncer oversees the smokers that have gathered next to a small patio heater.

“Sorry, I didn’t give you a chance to grab your coat.”, Jordan says and draws Harry closer. “Are you cold?”

“Ah, I quite like you as a portable heater.”, Harry responds truthfully. Jordan does radiate heat and Harry enjoys leaning against his side. “And I didn’t bring a coat. All good.”

Jordan pushes them through the crowd of nicotine addicts that stand in small chattering groups. Harry cannot help but notice the blonde girl from earlier, she gives him a lopsided sneer. There are more blonde heads around but Harry feels safe of his curse, now, even as they come to stand next to a dark-skinned man and his much paler companion.

“Fag?”, Jordan asks, pointing an open pack at Harry. 

“Nah, thanks. I don’t smoke.”, Harry answers. He has picked up many bad habits but not this one.

“Ah, good for you.”, Jordan smiles wryly, cigarette dangling from his lips. “You don’t just happen to carry a lighter around?” 

Harry briefly considers concealing a wandless charm with his hands but then just shakes his head. He’s ninety percent sure that Jordan is Muggle and there is no need to risk something.

“Nevermind. Hey, guys, sorry to interrupt!”, Jordan shouts in the direction of the two men next to them. Both turn around. 

“You!”, echoes through the street in stereo.

Harry does not want to believe his eyes. He blinks, rubs them, blinks again. It does not help. He still sees Draco Malfoy right in front of him, at the backdoor of a run-down Muggle dance club somewhere in a narrow street in the middle of London. Worse than that, he sees a sweat-glistening, leather-trouser wearing, open-shirted fucking sexy version of Draco Malfoy. 

“Um, bad ex situation?”, Jordan guesses looking horribly uncomfortable.

“No!”, Harry and Draco shout simultaneously.

“Sounds more like husbands to me!”, a bystander comments and earns muffled laughter from the crowd.

“Can you please get the hell out of my life?”, Harry hisses at Malfoy.

“Your life?”, Malfoy snarls back. “Last time I checked, you were the one living abroad.”

“Last time I checked the oh-so-grand Malfoy was not supposed to go dancing in a place like this!”

“Don’t you dare telling  _ me _ where I am supposed to be!”

“Well then you don’t tell  _ me _ what I am supposed to wear!”

The bouncer starts to eye the four men with raised eyebrows while Jordan looks at Harry and Malfoy in turn, then turns toward the fourth of the odd round. 

“I am clearly missing something here.”, he mutters.

“Don’t look at me, I’m innocent!”, the other answers with raised hands.

“You were born guilty, Zabini!”, Malfoy snaps, but he is not about to let Harry off the hook. “And  _ you _ , Potter, should better take your latest playtoy and leave. Now!”

“Jealous, Malfoy?”, Harry cannot help himself. Malfoy is fuming with anger, his hands clenched into fists, the tendons of his neck stand out, his eyes ablaze. A last drop of sweat breaks free from his temple, it rolls down over his clenched jaws and Harry’s eyes are pinned on it, the way it glides over the impeccable skin. He wants to lick it up, slowly, follow its path. He cuffs himself mentally.

“Of a sorry, drunk one-night stand? I dare say no.”, Malfoy says flatly. 

“I am not drunk!”, Harry argues and regrets it immediately. Being drunk would have been at least a semi-appropriate excuse for staring at Malfoy’s bare chest, at the leather-clad thighs, for wanting to see the backside of said leather pants.

“Yes you are, Potter. You’ve always been a lightweight.”

“A lightweight, me? Compared to who - you?” Harry thinks, with his oh so sober mind, that it is a fair point. He surely outweighs Malfoy by fifteen to twenty pounds. 

“As we saw the other day…”, Malfoy says slowly. He savors these words.

Harry flinches. A sudden flashback brings him back to the Tonks house, Malfoy’s hand at his throat, in his pants. He feels his cock twitch. 

“Erm, so…”, Jordan stutters. He looks at Zabini again, seeking help from a stranger caught up in the same situation. “Perhaps this is not such a good night, after all…”

“Once doesn’t count.”, Harry says, still talking to Malfoy, still unable to look at or listen to anything else. 

Neither he nor Malfoy take notice of Jordan. Zabini shrugs and pats Jordan’s arm. He hands him a lighter. “It’s been this way since we were in school. Nothing you can do about it, believe me.”, Zabini says and takes a drag from his own cigarette. “Fancy going back to mine instead?”

Meanwhile, Malfoy has stepped closer to Harry, one finger poking his chest. “So I’ll have to make the second time count, then. Is that what you’re saying?”

“As if I’d let you…”, Harry growls. 

Malfoy raises a hand to his throat, he slaps it away. Malfoy grins but does not move an inch. “You wouldn’t just let me - you want me to.”

“You’re a sick bastard.”

“And you’re a perverse little bitch.” Malfoy’s gin widens. “So what?”

“Hey fellas, I dunno what’s been goin’ on between the two of you, but either you turn it down four notches or you get the hell out of here.”, the bouncer interrupts. It sounds like he is giving a well-practiced speech. “Go home. Get a room. Get a quiet little street corner for all I care but not  _ my _ corner, ok?” 

Harry and Malfoy are silent for a moment. The bouncer huffs and turns his back on them. Harry seizes the brief moment of relative sanity to unglue his gaze from Malfoy and get a few steps between them.

“Well, I guess we’re done here.”, he says and turns towards the street.

“Oh, but we are far from done.”

The last word still rings in Harry’s ear when he feels the characteristic tug of apparition pull at his navel. 

  
  


A second later, his feet are hitting ground again, he tumbles and catches himself on a wall. Then he feels another body press against his back, Malfoy’s breath at his neck, and a smell of cedars and ocean floods over him.

“We are done when I say so.”, Malfoy whispers and pushes Harry further against the wall.

“You’re such a fucking asshole.”, Harry groans. He has no idea where he is, the room is dark and the only thing in his field of view is a plain, papered wall.

“Done stating the obvious?”, Malfoy laughs. His hands have captured Harry’s, they hold them up against the wall. His legs straddle Harry’s, his groin presses against Harry’s ass. 

“Like the fact that you are getting hard pushing your dick against my ass?”

“Ah, go on.”, Malfoy says quietly as he moves his nose over Harry’s neck, searching. “Sometimes facts can be very entertaining.”

“And sometimes the truth hurts.”, Harry replies and turns around with one forceful movement, turning Malfoy with him and throwing him against the wall. It is now Malfoy’s wrists that are caught in Harry’s hands, his legs that are pinned by Harry’s thighs.

“Feisty little bitch”, Malfoy comments, still grinning his awfully self-complimenting grin, that grin that makes Harry want to grab his jaw and wipe it off with whatever means necessary.

“Careful, she bites, too.”, he replies, flashing his teeth with a grin in return. 

“Show me.”, Malfoy demands. His breath smells of whiskey and cigarettes. 

Harry acts on the invitation before he can think about it. His teeth sink into the flesh of Malfoy’s neck, he tastes the salt of sweat and something bitter-sweet, the skin under his lips is soft, tender, he is almost surprised it does not break. Malfoy’s moan is loud and hoarse and there is so much want in it, Harry cannot help himself but lean into that sound, the body that produces it. 

His hands let go of Malfoy’s wrists, he is greedy. It is not enough to have his mouth on Malfoy’s throat, he needs his hands under his shirt, on his ass. He needs to feel Malfoy’s slender muscles move underneath his fingers, he needs to keep hearing his breath catch, hear him groan. Harry needs so much, it makes his head swim, it is overwhelming.

And it does not help that Malfoy responds beautifully, that his freed hands have found their way to Harry’s back pockets, kneading his ass through a thin layer of fabric, that his hard cock is now pressing against Harry’s. It does not help that they have fallen into a voracious rhythm of grinding and moaning, of touching and scratching. It all just stirs a lust that knows no why - just that.

And so Harry does not ask why, or how, he finds himself back on his knees in front of Malfoy, how Malfoy’s prick found its way into his mouth again. He does not question that he wants to swallow Malfoy’s cock hole, wants to lick its length, wants to feel it harden and twitch in his mouth. And the feeling is so satisfying, the pleasure so intense, he does not stop until he can feel Malfoy’s hand tugging at his hair urgently, until he can taste his cum and hear him scream and feel his thighs tremble underneath the grip of his hands.

“Greedy bastard.”, Malfoy snarls a moment later, his voice is raspy and shakes with arousal. He glares down at Harry like a mad wildcat. His fingers are still tangled in Harry’s hair, and now he is pulling again, forcing Harry’s head back. Malfoy licks his lips in anticipation. “Selfish brat.”

“Help yourself.”, Harry offers with a grin. He is drunk on liquor and sex. If he has ever known shame, he has forgotten all about it. He spreads his thighs, undoes his zip. His cock is eager to escape its prison, it aches and drips, and the thought of Malfoy’s mouth around it is almost enough to make Harry come. 

And when he finally does get what he wants, when Malfoy kneels on the floor with him, head bowed over his groin, the feeling consumes Harry. He shivers as sweat drips down his forehead. His hands seek hold on the ground but his arms are shaking, his legs are useless. He lets himself fall to the ground completely and Malfoy follows, his eyes fixed on Harry’s dick. He takes it in his mouth gingerly at first, almost playfully. Harry growls in frustration and Malfoy chuckles, lets his tongue play with Harry’s foreskin, and Harry feels helpless once again, reduced to a bundle of nerves that are strained to their limits. His hips buckle up against Malfoy’s mouth and only then does he swallow Harry’s full length, sucks hard, falls into an intense rhythm that forces Harry’s eyes shut and throws his senses into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... I hope you enjoyed that last bit as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Coming up: More from our dear little Teddy, brooms, and other marvelous mischief.


End file.
